


When Hearts Are Wagered

by TheLynx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Character, Blood Magic, Borderline Personality Disorder, Disabled Character, F/F, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other, PTSD, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Psychosis, Romance, Sibling Bonding, Tourette's Syndrome, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLynx/pseuds/TheLynx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mahanon is assigned to spy on the Conclave, his lover and sister tag along, eager to bring good news back to their clan. In the terror that follows, the three have to work together to survive and keep their bonds strong as the world threatens to tear them apart.</p><p>Main plot quests are pretty drastically rewritten while retaining its basic form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I will only rarely directly quote the game. Most dialogue will be rewritten for this fic so that it fits better and so that it is not repetitive. Cyrnarel uses both he and they pronouns. These will stay consistent within scenes, for the most part, but may change between them.
> 
> Solas: Concept art Solas is used instead of the bald in-game one.
> 
> Romances aren't going to start until a fair bit into the fic.

“I still can’t believe I got stuck with you two.”

Mahanon glanced up from where he was pinning down a corner of his tent, halfheartedly blowing a strand of deep red hair away from his eyes as he grinned at his older sister, raising an eyebrow. “Stuck with us? Wasn’t it you who insisted on coming along in the first place?”

Ellana rolled her eyes. She leaned back against a tree, crossing her arms. “You're still young, and you’re a _mage_. I wasn’t about to let you two come down here on your own.”

“Obviously, so—“

“But you could at least have the decency to _try_ to be quiet at night.”

Cyrnarel, the third elf with them, snickered as they tended to the fish cooking above their camp’s fire. Mahanon, on the other hand, let out a chirp as a faint blush and horrified expression spread across his face. “I—ah—we didn’t think—“ he stammered out. Of course they’d been affectionate over the past couple weeks of traveling, but the two had tried to be as considerate as possible to their third party. Evidently, not considerate enough.

Thankfully, his sister wasn’t particularly upset, and probably took some sort of wicked joy in teasing him this way. “So start thinking,” she said playfully, walking over to the fire to sit down and enjoy her meal, with her back facing Mahanon.

Mahanon glanced towards Cyrnarel painfully, who gave an apologetic shrug in response before starting on their own fish.

Mahanon, being the clan’s First, had been asked by Keeper Istimaethoriel to journey south and spy on the Conclave being held at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. If the mages and templars could make some progress on the awful war they’d been having, Clan Lavellan might be able to safely resume trade with humans again in the Free Marches. Templars in the area had been growing rather snappy and suspicious over the past year, and rogue mages had been threatening the safety of their clan, having been driven to desperate measures to survive. Since he was a mage and a scholar, Mahanon would be able to understand more of the magical discussions than most, and would be able to shield himself if he sensed any magic being cast.

Of course, being a mage around humans wasn’t safe, and a single elf traveling was even less safe, so he had brought Cyrnarel along with him. Both were twenty-six years old, but neither of them had been away from the clan for a significant period of time, and their vallaslin—the earthy red vines of Elgar’nan for the mage, and deep green tendrils of Falon’din for his lover—clearly marked them as outsiders. Ellana, who was thirty-three, had decided to accompany them as well, figuring that they would be better off with a third tagging along. Mahanon had groaned at the time, but he couldn’t deny that she was one of the best archers in the clan, and it was honestly comforting to have yet another elf with him in such unfamiliar territory.

Keeper Istimaethoriel had personally requested that Ellana go anyway, a secret she kept from the smitten couple. They didn’t need to know.

The mage, after finally setting up the second tent, joined them for their small meal of fish. They were a couple of miles away from where the Conclave would take place, and had arrived just in time: The event would be tomorrow afternoon. All of them were anxious to find out what would happen, and desperately hopeful for a positive outcome. Their clan would have a hard time surviving yet another winter like this, and the first snows would be arriving within the month. They needed this to go well.

Smacking her lips and giving Cyrnarel a pat on the back in thanks for the meal, Ellana stood up and stretched. “I’m going to go in town and see if there’s any bread left in their market,” she said, slinging her bow and arrows over her shoulder. The weapons never left her side, even if it made her a suspicious figure, but she could use her words sweetly enough to escape most hostile situations that arose as a result. “We could do with a better lunch than just fish and rabbit tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” called Cyrnarel. Once she was gone, they glanced over at Mahanon, who flashed him an impish grin. The rogue scooted towards him, closing the small gap between them and leaning over to give him a chaste kiss, their movements languid and content.

Mahanon deepened the kiss, sneaking his tongue into the other’s mouth as he pressed his torso up against theirs, seeking more contact between their bodies. Cyrnarel left one hand on the ground to remain balanced, putting most of their weight on it as they moved their other hand to start feeling the mage’s hips, roaming across his stomach and trailing the thin line of hair leading downwards, eliciting a small, expectant gasp from their lover.

The gasp was soon followed by a delightful whimper as they separated from him, and they gave another quick kiss in apology. “You’ve already set up our tent, vhenan,” they said, voice low and heavy with excitement. “We might as well use it.”

* * *

 

To the couple’s delight, Ellana had had the luck to buy a loaf of bread and a block of cheese without using up all their coin, and shortly after waking they ate it along with the end of the dried meat they had brought from home.

“Thank Sylaise,” Mahanon said, chewing on a slice of the cheese. “I would’ve rather eaten a rock than another fish today.”

The two rogues nodded in amused agreement. While none of them often complained about food, especially considering the scarcity at home, a little bit of variety was a welcome relief, however soon it would disappear.

The two tents had already been packed away in preparation of the day ahead, so once the elves had finished eating they took off for the temple, footsteps crunching lightly on the thin layer of snow that had settled over the hard ground last night. It wasn’t long until they began to find crowds of people wandering in the same direction as them, as eager to reach the Conclave as they were (and perhaps with as much hope and dread as they had). Most of them were human, wearing all sorts of clothing: Circle robes, shining templar armor, Grey Warden outfits, fancy dyed fur coats… There were few elves and dwarves among the crowds, and no other Dalish, leaving the three Lavellans standing out as awkwardly as the two or three qunari who were in attendance.

Ellana led the way through the crowds, finding a spot for them to stand, not far from a side door to the temple where people were already filtering into the building. She let out a huff of frustration as she tried peeking over the heads of the humans in front of her. “I’m not sure if we can get in there,” she admitted. “It’s crowded enough that one of us would go unnoticed, but not all of us, and we’d be competing against everyone else.”

Frowning, Cyrnarel placed a hand on Mahanon’s shoulder for balance and tried standing on his toes to examine the crowd, but it didn’t take long before he gave up. “Too many shemlen,” he muttered.

The mage was agitated as well, blinking and chirping more than usual as he fidgeted on his feet. “At least we now know we are collectively miserable at spying on shem.”

His sister chuckled. “Ever the optimist, lethallin,” she said, squeezing his hand with one of her own. But the opportunity to sneak in kept dwindling away as they watched, and as the guards around the temple began to turn away guests, their hearts fell.

Mahanon let out a sigh, watching the grand, engraved doors close shut. “Well, at least we’ll find out some of what happened later.” The crowd was steadily diminishing, and his tics decreased with them. Once they were mostly gone, he gently pulled on Ellana’s wrist, and all three elves walked over to a now-vacant bench where they could sit and watch the temple. The guards eyed them suspiciously, but it wasn’t as if they were close enough to cause any trouble.

Instead of joining the other two on the bench, Ellana remained standing. “I’m not going to sit around and wait while all of this goes on,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. She dropped her voice before continuing. “I’m going to walk around the area, listen to what other people are saying about all of this. Some of the shemlen probably know more about this than we do, and if it’s just me wandering around they won’t pay much attention if I get close to them. You two can sit here and be… mushy or something.”

Cyrnarel wrapped an arm around Mahanon’s shoulders, grinning at the archer. “Be mushy? Got it. Yes ma’am.” His grin widened at her scowl, and Mahanon chirped a few times in embarrassment.

Two hours later, they were still on the bench, fidgeting uncomfortably as light snowflakes alighted on their hair, sky starting to turn dark as snow-heavy clouds covered it. They had run out of things to talk about not long ago, partly due to the mind-numbing effect the chill wind had on them. There had been a few loud sounds from within the temple, presumably from heated arguments, and the couple guards at the side door had both disappeared inside when the elves had still been debating with each other about exactly what to buy with their remaining coins.

A scream suddenly broke the silence, startling the two of them out of their doze. Glancing at each other, they rose, rushing towards the temple. They both hesitated before the door. Neither of them were keen on interrupting such a large event, especially one filled with humans, but they were the only ones around and they were certain they had heard something.

A cry for help.

Cyrnarel shoved the door open.

The heavy weight of magic almost overwhelmed Mahanon. “What’s going on here?” he yelled, rushing in behind his lover, dread prickling at his skin as sharply as the energy he felt.

The answer was lost as the world exploded.


	2. The Wrath of Heaven

Unfortunately for Ellana, few of the conversations she overheard were particularly helpful. Everyone camping and conversing in the surrounding area was anxious and uncertain, their words filled with hope but no knowledge. It seemed that anyone who had useful information was attending the Conclave personally.

She sighed, deciding to return to her clanmates empty-handed. The smell of roasting ram made her mouth water as she began to trudge back up the hill she’d gone down, and she felt a pang of disappointment that she wouldn’t even be able to hunt anything filling today, considering the amount of people in the area. A couple of templars held their hands near their swords as she passed by, but otherwise, she didn’t attract much attention.

Then, there was a tingle in the air, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. At first she thought it might be a mage casting a spell, but it was too sharp for that, and no mage would make that mistake while surrounded by this many templars. The feeling lasted for only a moment before a flash of green stole her vision, knocking her and those around her to the ground.

When she came back to her senses a minute later, Ellana rose back up on her feet, unsteady but better off than the others nearby who did not have even half her nimbleness. Her eyes shot up to the sky, to the massive hole that now breached it.

Panic rose within her, and she struggled to keep it down as she ran forward, forcing her feet to carry her up the hill. The temple wasn’t visible from her current angle, but she knew without a doubt that it had been the location of the blast. The closer she got to the temple, the more flames and destruction she could see. It wasn’t long before charred bodies started to come into her view, and the stench and heat fell over her in waves. _Is this what Kirkwall was like?_

For quite possibly the first time in her life, she prayed that her brother and Cyrnarel had gotten bored with the situation and snuck off on one of their escapades, somewhere safely away from harm. _I should have protected them,_ she thought. _That’s why I’m here in the first place._

She finally reached the edge of the rubble that used to be part of the temple, glazed eyes darting around at the horror before her. Nobody could have survived that explosion. Templars and what she assumed to be guards were already milling about, mostly silent with shock as they tried to sort out what had happened. None of the burning bodies were recognizable, and even some of their armor had been incinerated.

Too stunned and confused to cry, Ellana retreated from the scene, towards the mountains. It wouldn’t do her any good to be accosted by any of these humans, and her friends would head away from civilization in such chaos as well, so it was as good a place as any to begin searching for them.

If they yet lived, that was. But they had to. She wouldn’t let them die, not like this.

* * *

 

A sharp, almost electric pain awoke Cyrnarel with a gasp, and they almost keeled over at the shock. Head reeling, they tried to calm themself, to keep their fear manageable. It wasn’t often that they were surprised by anything, but even though they had just woken up they knew something was dreadfully wrong.

Flashes of green illuminated the walls, bringing with them even more pain, focused on their left hand. They stared at it blankly, tilting their head in confusion. The situation was even stranger when they considered the binds on their wrists. Did a guard sneak up on them while they were chatting with Mahanon or something? Everything was a bit too fuzzy to sort through now.

They were inside a small, dimly lit room—presumably a cell—with a few guards stationed at the corners, glancing at them nervously. Cyrnarel almost smiled at that, but the situation was a little too odd and they felt too weak to take any enjoyment in it.

The door to the cell opened, and two armed women entered, the first approaching them with open hostility. Her armor was decorated with symbols reminiscent of the Chantry, and she held herself with confidence. The elf almost sneered at her, but their survival instincts got the better of them, so they settled for an expression of mild indifference.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she demanded, voice almost trembling, as much grief as anger slipping out.

They blinked, even more confused than before. “I hardly think attending a shem event is grounds for an execution,” they said, “or even imprisonment. If you think I did something other than exist, I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Everyone at the Conclave is dead—except for you,” the woman growled out. She grabbed his left hand. “Tell me what this is.”

“How the fuck should I know?” Cyrnarel replied, baring their teeth. “Whatever happened at the Conclave, I wasn’t even in there. I was outside, and now I am here. What more do you want?”

“You’re lying!” she said. The other woman, hooded and with more subtle Chantry symbols on her armor, pulled her away from the elf.

“Cassandra, we need him. He may actually be telling the truth.” The now-named woman looked ready to fight with her friend, but gave a tentative nod after a moment and backed off.

“Of course, Leliana.”

A realization hit Cyrnarel then. “Wait—everyone at the Conclave died?”

Leliana nodded. “You were the only survivor. The explosion wasn’t very widespread, but it killed everyone who was inside or near the temple. If any of your friends were nearby, they are dead.” Her eyes held an ounce of pity in them as Cyrnarel unwillingly let an expression of grief pass across their face for a second. “What do you remember?”

“I… I don’t remember,” they admitted. In truth, they had glimpses of memories floating through their mind, but they were fragmented and made little sense. For all they knew, that could have simply been a bad dream. They gritted their teeth as their hand spasmed again, flashing brightly. “I was sitting on a bench. Alone. I don’t have a clue what happened, so whatever you think I did, I didn’t do it. I wasn’t even in there.” There was no way they were letting these humans know about Mahanon or Ellana. Better to keep those two safe, if they lived.

They definitely lived. They had to.

Cassandra looked ready to protest, but at a glance from Leliana she reconsidered. “Leliana, head to the forward camp. I’ll take the prisoner to the rift.” The redheaded woman nodded and walked off out the cell.

The warrior approached Cyrnarel, and they took up a defensive posture. “I’m releasing you from your manacles,” she said impatiently, drawing a key from her pocket. They hesitated a moment before allowing her to kneel down and unlock them, replacing them with a rope. “You are, however, still a prisoner, and our only suspect. But if you don’t recall what happened… I will show you.”

They followed her from the room, bracing themself as the bitter evening wind bit through their thin leather armor. Cyrnarel’s belongings, winter coat included, had evidently not survived whatever events had gone on. But even more chilling than that was the sickly green lightning dancing across the sky, which looked completely torn apart.

If they guessed correctly, they must have been in Haven, from the looks of the place, since it was the only settlement for miles. Which meant the place beneath the hole in the sky was the temple. “Creators, what happened?” they asked quietly.

“The explosion at the Conclave caused this. We call this one the Breach. There are other, smaller rifts around the world, but this is the largest. It expands by the hour, and with it, so does that mark on your hand.”

“But what _is_ the Breach?”

“All of the rifts let demons into this world, so they have some sort of connection to the Fade,” Cassandra explained.

Cyrnarel snorted. “So you blame the first living elf you can find. Why would I open a rift to the Beyond? What reason would I possibly have for that?”

“Your people are not exactly unfamiliar with summoning demons,” she said, “and you were the only survivor.”

Their eyebrows rose. “I’m not a mage, shem.” Thoughts of Mahanon snuck into their mind, but they pushed them away. There would be time for that later. Right now, they were in a dangerous position.

“But you did survive.”

“Then why did you bring me out here, exactly?”

A grim expression crossed the warrior’s face. “The mark may be able to close the Breach. They are linked, at least. As the mark expands, it could kill you, and therefore it would be in your best interests to come with me. And… they say you walked out of a rift at the site of the explosion, with a woman behind you.”

The human was not making much sense. “I’m a suspect because of this thing on my hand that’s killing me. Because I was near a rift at some point,” the elf said flatly. They sighed, resigning themself to this human’s desires. They’d had worse captors. “I don’t care. Go on, take me to this Breach, then. Couldn’t you at least untie my hands?” They wiggled their fingers. “I’m unarmed.”

“Even without a weapon, someone like you can still be considered armed.” She began to lead them through the village, which was filled with incredibly agitated humans. “You are the only suspect in the deaths of Divine Justinia and her favored successors. The people here do not trust you.”

Once they reached a bridge leading out of the village, she cut the rope binding them, and they rubbed their wrists. After the manacles and the rope, the skin was a nasty red color. Cyrnarel thought to ask for a healing salve, but decided against it, not wanting to ask a favor of a human who had already decided their guilt.

“I suppose this all means that the Conclave was a failure?” they asked. No matter how much they disliked this human, their primary task still existed.

She nodded sadly. “Mages and templars are still fighting each other. Even worse now, it seems, since the explosion. They do not seek peace as they should.”

Cyrnarel furrowed their eyebrows. “Since the explosion? How long was I out?”

“Three days. We had healers watching over you to ensure you did not die.”

They grunted an acknowledgement, the closest to a thanks that they were willing to give.

“First, we will test your mark on something smaller than the Breach. It will be the quickest way to figure out how they will interact.”

They followed her into the valley, passing by a few soldiers and some burning objects as they made their way vaguely towards the Breach. The two had to pause a few times as Cyrnarel was overwhelmed by pulses from the Breach, but once they reached a second bridge, an object fell from the sky and destroyed it. The stones fell apart beneath them, and they fell to the ice below.

The pain almost knocked out the elf, and they were in a daze as they watched Cassandra battle a demon a few feet away. A second demon excitedly headed towards them as they lay on the thick ice, clawed hands reaching out, and adrenaline surged through Cyrnarel. Rolling over towards the remains of a wagon, they grabbed a dented longsword, pushed themself to their feet, and slashed at the demon. The weapon was uncomfortable use, and put the elf a bit off balance, but it sliced through the creature’s flesh well enough.

Once the demon was defeated, Cyrnarel panted heavily, left arm screaming in pain from both the mark and the exertion. Cassandra rushed over towards them, sword raised. “Drop the weapon. Now.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me? You want to let the demons do it for you? Not a chance.” She glared at him disapprovingly for a moment before giving in, sheathing her sword. Wordlessly, she continued along a path towards the temple, and Cyrnarel took a moment to wipe their sword on the snow and collect its sheath from the ground, fitting it onto the belt at their hip. It would be a pain to fight with, straining muscles that hadn’t been used in quite a while, but it would keep them alive.

After running into a few more demons, they came upon their first rift. An elf without vallaslin—a mage, Cyrnarel had noted—grabbed Cyrnarel’s hand and shoved it towards the rift. They panicked for a moment; the rift felt unnatural, and they certainly didn’t want to be anywhere near it. Yet the mark on their hand reacted to it, controlling it, manipulating the tear until it imploded, disappearing with a flash of light and pain.

“So I was right,” the new elf said with satisfaction. Cyrnarel looked at him questioningly. “The mark and the rifts share the same sort of magic. You were able to close the rift with that mark, proving my guess correct.”

“Good to know!” came a voice from behind them. They turned to see a beardless dwarf saunter towards them. “We can finally stop all these demons from jumping us. Varric Tethras,” he offered by way of introduction.

“And you are?” Cyrnarel asked the other elf, ignoring whatever else Varric was going to say. They kept a neutral expression on their face, wanting to gather information without giving any out, and they were definitely more interested in the mage.

“Ah, where are my manners? I am Solas. Pleasure to meet you.”

“He kept that mark from killing you while you slept,” Varric added.

It seemed the mage knew quite a lot about what was going on. Perhaps more than he let on? Cyrnarel noted the information for later. “Cyrnarel, of Clan Lavellan,” they said. “Will you be coming with us into the valley?” Being stuck fighting demons with a human who blamed them for the situation was not ideal, and they would prefer to have some company along that was at least tolerable.

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra said harshly. “Your presence is not necessary.”

“You said my weapon was not necessary either,” Cyrnarel pointed out. “Refusing help would simply reduce our chances of survival.”

Varric looked pleased—almost smug—at the suggestion. “Come on, Seeker. You know he’s right.”

She let out a sigh. “Fine. Let’s get to the forward camp.”

Between the demons and another rift that Cyrnarel had to close, they kept glancing around at their surroundings. A burning house, unidentifiable destroyed objects… nothing useful. There wasn’t anything to indicate that anyone out of the ordinary had been here except for the markings of a camp or two. Their heart ached with worry. If Ellana survived—no, she did survive. She would leave markers somewhere. A symbol that their clan’s hunters used, subtle enough to be overlooked as just a scratch by someone who wasn’t seeking it out. Or an object, a scrap of leather or a feather left behind in the right spots. Mahanon would leave marks too; the same marks as the rest of their clan, or an out-of-place scorch from a lightning spell. But Mahanon had been so close…

They shook their head. No. Mahanon was fine. He had to be.

Cyrnarel learned little from their companions. Cassandra had held Varric captive as well, and it had something to do with the explosion in Kirkwall a few years back. Solas was an apostate with an affinity for the Fade, and was neither a city elf nor Dalish. The mage was difficult to read. While Cassandra and Varric showed their emotions easily, Solas seemed to mostly be filled with curiosity, and was fairly distanced from the other two. Cyrnarel assumed he wasn’t humorous, considering how Varric called him “Chuckles.”

At least they weren’t all human.

At the camp, they met up with Leliana again, who was arguing with a Chantry brother. Cyrnarel paid little attention to the conversation, even as the man called for their execution, but listened again once they started talking about paths to the temple.

“The path across the mountain is too risky. We must charge ahead with force,” Cassandra argued.

The elf shook their head, joining in on the conversation. “No. I agree with Leliana. If you want us to get to the Breach, we need to use a distraction while we sneak by on the mountain path. We can handle it.”

Varric nodded approvingly. “We might even run into the scouts we lost contact with.”

The warrior’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but she nodded her assent. She gave some orders to Leliana, and the four of them took off, the chancellor stating his disapproval of their decisions behind them.

They made their way up the path to an abandoned mine, keeping an eye out for the missing scouts as they went. Cyrnarel was less interested, and their thoughts kept drifting towards Ellana and Mahanon. Once the group had been through a portion of the mine and returned back outside, one of the nearby trees caught their eye. They were about to pass it by, but decided to take a look—they trusted their instincts too much to ignore it.

The scratches in the bark could’ve been made by anything or anyone, but their breath caught in their throat. _One of them survived. Oh, Mythal, at least one of them is alive!_

“You alright, kid?” the dwarf asked. Cyrnarel scowled at him without thinking, and he raised a hand. “Hey, we’re all a bit on edge right now. It’s fine.”

“I’m not on edge,” they snapped, wincing at the words. Their voice wasn’t shaky, but they knew it was an obvious lie. Varric didn’t push the topic though.

The group found the missing scouts dealing with another rift, and helped close it before more lives could be lost. Cyrnarel fell to their knees in pain once it was closed—they’d taken a nasty hit to the leg, and their hand felt as if it was on fire. They could barely hear Cassandra speaking with a scout as Solas kneeled down to heal them, soft blue light emanating from his hands.

The scouts were gone by the time Cyrnarel could focus again. They rose, leaning on the mage for a moment before standing on their own. “There’s no more demons ahead,” Cassandra said. “We’re nearly there.”

“Hold, shem.”

The four of them turned towards the sparse trees behind them. An elven woman with messy red hair faced them, arrow knocked on her bow, aimed towards the warrior. Her eyes were a vibrant green, framed by the thin brown branches of her Mythal vallaslin. She scowled at them, teeth bared. “I heard what you called Cyrn. ‘Prisoner.’ You’re not taking them any farther.”

“Ellana!” Cyrnarel exclaimed, utterly relieved to see that she survived. They let out a breathy laugh. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“You said you were here alone,” Cassandra said, eyes narrowing. “What else were you lying about?” She faced the archer. “Lower your weapon. Unless you caused that explosion, we should have similar goals.”

At a nod from Cyrnarel, Ellana slowly lowered her bow. “What goals would those be? Taking my clansman back there”—she motioned towards the temple, which was now a very short distance away—“is the opposite of what I want.”

“Lethallin,” they said, showing her their left hand. The light from the green mark danced around it, the mark itself looking like a gaping wound, slowly spreading wider. “This can close rifts. I may be able to stop the larger one from spreading. If I don’t…” They stopped with a gasp as the Breach pulsed again, leaning on Varric so that they wouldn’t fall over. After the pain subsided, they resumed. “If I don’t, it might kill me.”

She accepted their explanation. She wouldn’t trust the others, but Cyrnarel was close to her and would never lie about something so serious. In fact, she couldn’t even think of a time when she’d ever seen him so afraid.

“Here,” she said, grabbing the pack off her back. Curious, Cyrnarel opened it to peek inside, and they grinned. They unlatched the sword from their belt, placing it on the ground, and took a couple of wicked daggers out from the back, placing them on their back. Both were a little unusual, being double-bladed, but those were what the elf preferred.

“Ma serannas. I hate swords.”

They walked in silence until they reached the outer ruins of the temple. Ellana had seen the burnt bodies from a distance a few days earlier, standing as if they were twisted statues. The snow hadn’t even been enough to put out the flames, which continued to burn, although there were fewer of them than before.

“Ellana,” Cyrnarel began hesitantly, eyeing the grisly scene before them. “Have you found Mahanon? I don’t know what happened to him. I think we were still close to the temple when… you know,”they asked, switching to Elvish so their companions wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop.

Solas’ glance indicated that he understood what they were saying, but the Dalish didn’t care; he seemed trustworthy enough. “Nothing. No markings or signals,”she replied in the same language.

Both wanted to reassure the other that they would find him, but they didn’t say anything else. Their hope was running thin.

They entered what was left of the temple tentatively, taking a minute to look around. A large, floating green cluster of crystals—an unopened rift—floated in the center, directly beneath the massive hole in the sky. Bunches of other crystals, red ones, dotted the walls. “Red lyrium,” Varric whispered disgustedly. “Don’t. Touch. It.”

Leliana greeted them, running up from behind. “Thank the Maker!” she said.

“Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple,” Cassandra commanded, and the other woman obliged. “Come, let’s find a way down there.”

She started to lead the way towards where she thought the stairs were, and the rest moved to follow, but Cyrnarel said, “Wait.”

“What is it?” Solas asked. The rogue’s head was tilted and their eyes darted around the area, as if searching for something.

“We need to move,” Cassandra insisted. Ellana and Cyrnarel both tensed, then moved quickly, taking the lead.

_“Now is the hour of our betrayal. Bring forth the sacrifice. …Keep the sacrifice still.”_

The words echoed off the broken walls, but the two Lavellans ignored them as their companions wondered about where they came from. The words didn’t matter—they had a more pressing issue.

_“Someone! Help me!”_

They found their way down, dropping off of a shallow ledge to reach the ground beneath it.

_“What’s going on here?”_

It was just an echo of a memory, the same as the other voices, but it made the two Dalish elves pause and glance at each other. It was Mahanon’s voice.

The proximity of the mark to the rift must have triggered something, because an image of the scene in question appeared. A woman dressed in Chantry robes—Divine Justinia—yelling for help. A shadowy figure standing before here. Cyrnarel, rushing into the scene, Mahanon right behind him.

_“Run while you can! Warn them!”_

_“We have intruders. Slay the elves.”_

Another flash of light, and the scene disappeared, leaving the rift floating alone.

“You were there!” Cassandra exclaimed, walking straight up to Cyrnarel. “What happened? Was this vision true? Who was the other elf with you?”

“How should I know?” they growled, shoving past the human. They walked past the rift determinedly.

“Cyrnarel,” Solas called, “if you can fully open this rift, we may be able to seal it afterwards.”

“I don’t care!” they yelled, moving behind a chunk of rubble, Ellana right behind them. Then they froze. “Solas. Get over here.”

The mage followed, irritated that the rift wasn’t being dealt with but worried at the grim tone Cyrnarel’s voice had taken. The others with them followed, but watched at a distance.

“Heal him.”

There was an elf lying on the ground, struggling for consciousness. His hair was half burnt off, and he had a number of burns all over his body. The thin armor he wore was barely intact. He let out a small sound, his body trying to tic but his low energy making that a difficult task. From a distance, he could have been mistaken for a corpse, with the minimal movement he was making and with how covered in ash and rubble he was.

Solas knelt down and began casting, no questions asked. Ellana gently poured a healing potion into her brother’s mouth, making sure none was wasted. He was in awful shape, and after having been left here for three days, it was a miracle he was even alive. As it was, he clung to life by a thread.

Cyrnarel took one of his hands in theirs and spoke in Elvish. “You’re going to be okay, ma vhenan. You will get through this.” Tears began to well in their eyes.

“How did she survive?” Cassandra asked, awed at the fact that yet another elf could survive the blast, even with such damage.

 _“He,”_ Cyrnarel snapped. They didn’t offer any other response, neither knowing nor caring about the answer. It wasn’t fair, that Mahanon would be hurt like this while Cyrnarel got out with just a strange mark on their hand. The entire situation was still a mystery.

Solas stood up. “He will need a lot of rest, but he has been stabilized. No doubt he has also suffered some damage to his mental state; I am afraid there is little I could do to help him with that.”

Ellana looked to Cyrnarel. “You deal with the rift. I’ll make sure Mahanon’s safe.” She lifted her brother in her arms and headed back towards the ledge they came from. “Just don’t die.”

The Seeker called to the soldiers standing around, telling them to prepare for demons. Cyrnarel braced themself, then lifted their hand towards the floating crystals, determined to get this over with.

The pride demon that came through the rift was massive, and terrified Cyrnarel more than they wanted to admit. The battle with it was difficult, and for the first time they were glad to have Cassandra along—she was an excellent swordsman, and they were absolutely exhausted after the day’s stresses.

The moment its body hit the ground, the elf reached out again, straining to stay upright against the pain wracking their arm. They forced the rift closed, hanging onto consciousness as long as they could.

Once it was done, a weak smile of victory made its way to their face. It didn’t stay long, however. They stumbled, falling forwards into a heap while everything around them turned black.


	3. The Inquisition Reborn

Watching Cyrnarel fall was almost as heart-shattering as watching the explosion of the temple. Ellana’s breath caught in her throat, and she had to be mindful that she didn’t tighten her grip on her brother and worsen his already fragile condition. She held him by the archway that had once held a door to this area, having stayed behind in case her arrows were needed.

It was time for her to go; Mahanon needed to see a proper healer as soon as possible. But she could not leave Cyrnarel until she was certain that they were okay.

Their still form lay on the ground. Only a few wounds marked their body, all superficial, from what Ellana could tell. But what had stabilizing the rift done to them? Had it taken all of their energy, the last of their life? The thing hadn’t even closed all the way! Not even the others on the ground had been affected nearly as much, recovering from the shockwave with little more than a bout of dizziness.

To think that Cyrnarel could ever die like this, surrounded by the humans they hated so much… _No, they’re not dead,_ she told herself. _They survived the explosion. They can survive this._

She watched as the dark-haired warrior woman—she hadn’t been able to catch any of their names yet—rushed over to check on the elf in question, kneeling over them and putting an ungloved hand to their neck. The woman let out a sigh and her whole body relaxed, and Ellana did the same. Cyrnarel was alive.

A hooded archer near Ellana gave some quick commands to one of the other humans before turning to the elf, walking past her. “Come,” she said, gesturing with her hand to indicate that she wanted Ellana to follow, “walk with me.”

Suspicious but not distrusting, she followed, walking alongside the human. Her armor was unique compared to that of the others, and was a very sturdy yet flexible mix of chainmail and leather, with boots that looked much heavier than they sounded. A faded purple hood covered most of her hair, which was almost the same shade of red as Ellana’s. She wore a number of Chantry symbols on her outfit, much like the warrior woman who was with Cyrnarel.

“I am Leliana, Left Hand of… Divine Justinia,” the archer said. “Did the three of you attend the Conclave together?”

“Yes,” Ellana said, shifting the weight of her brother in her arms. He was fully unconscious by now, and his breathing was weak yet steady. She paid more attention to the path than him, however; it was difficult to look at him with so many injuries. “I was away when the explosion happened.”

“And you are…?”

It took Ellana a moment to realize what she meant. “Oh! Ellana. This is Mahanon. The one back there is Cyrnarel.”

They had passed the burning corpses just outside the temple and now walked past a number of soldiers, who were treating injuries and gathering the bodies of others who had fought alongside them. A few stopped to stare curiously at the strange trio, but most ignored them in favor of helping their own or grieving the loss of their friends.

Leliana smiled gently. “Cassandra will make sure that Cyrnarel is safe, don’t worry,” she said, trying to soothe some of Ellana’s stress and bring her attention away from the death around them. “There is little reason to continue suspecting him of anything after what he’s done, and considering that he can seal rifts, we may have need of him.” She raised a hand as the other’s shoulders tensed. “We do not intend to use him; we’re not heartless. But that doesn’t mean we do not need him or that he cannot help us. Tell me, do you think he would leave rifts around the world, letting demons pour out of them and hurt innocents?”

The human did have a point there. “So what do you intend to do?”

“We have a plan. Some ideas. I will tell you all about it later, once some of my own associates are with us and your friends are safely with healers.” At Ellana’s surprised look, she elaborated: “Cyrnarel trusts you more than he does us, and I take it anything we tell him will be relayed to you, yes? We may as well put our trust in you as well. Pushing you away would only cause problems.”

Ellana nodded. She was still uncertain about trusting these humans, and wasn’t sure if this was part of some political game that would end up hurting them, but she didn’t have much of a choice if she didn’t want to abandon Cyrnarel. “Who is ‘we,’ exactly?”

“Myself, Cassandra, and a few others, depending on whose interest we can gain. We will need all the help we can get to close these rifts, especially the one still in the temple.”

They had reached a station for the forces that had been fighting here. Tables and tents had been set up, along with a few pots of stew. Healers and those who were wounded wouldn’t be able to make the trek to Haven tonight—it may have been the nearest settlement, but it was still a couple hours away.

A blond man in dark armor walked over to them, concern written all over his face. “Leliana, thank the Maker you’re alright. What happened? I heard Cassandra took the prisoner to the Breach, and word’s been spreading that he managed to do… _something_ do it. Is this him?” he asked, looking to Mahanon.

She shook her head. “No, these are friends of his. Cassandra should be bringing him back to Haven before too long. Cullen, this is Ellana; Ellana, this is Cullen Rutherford, commander of the troops and former templar.”

The elf nearly bristled to the final word, but managed to minimize her reaction, something Leliana noticed and filed away for later. “Nice to meet you, Ser Cullen,” she said, forcing a smile.

“I’m afraid we don’t have much time to linger,” Leliana said, halting any conversation before it started. “All I can say for now is that the Breach is stable and shouldn’t be bothering us any more for the time being. Also, I have something to talk to you about when you return to Haven, so please see me then.”

Cullen nodded, gave the women a salute, and returned to his soldiers. Leliana led Ellana past the soldiers until the path ahead of them was almost empty, only a few small groups of soldiers walking a fair distance in front of them. Haven was visible in the distance, and the elf judged that they would reach it just before sunrise.

“So…” Ellana started, interrupting the silence. “Who are you, exactly? Someone with the Chantry?”

“I am—was—the Left Hand of the Divine. I worked closely with Divine Justinia, and we were hoping that the Conclave might do some good for the war going on.” She smiled thinly. “I think it may have just gotten worse.”

“I am sorry for your loss then, Leliana,” Ellana offered. The other woman was hiding her grief, she knew; and she knew she would downplay that grief as much as possible, so she changed the subject before the conversation became tense. “If I recall correctly, you were a Grey Warden during the Fifth Blight?”

The human chuckled. “Not quite,” she said, a genuine grin showing beneath her hood. “I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden and helped him defeat the archdemon. I was never a Warden myself, but I suppose I almost acted like one then, fighting darkspawn and venturing into the Deep Roads. It was an interesting experience.”

“Nearly getting killed by a giant darkspawn is _interesting_? Well, I can safely say my life has been very dull indeed.” The path became a bit steeper, and Ellana had to pay more attention to her footing to avoid bits of ice. She couldn’t afford to fall while carrying her brother.

“When you live for a year with people like that, I don’t think things can ever get boring, no matter how bad they get.” She grinned at a memory, but the grin faded. “I said we will need all the help we can get. Cyrnarel will stay with us, I have little doubt. Will you and Mahanon do the same?”

“Of course.” There was no hesitation in Ellana’s answer. “We do not abandon our own.”

“You are not abandoning your clan by staying here? I know little of your people, but surely you are important to them.”

“We can do more good here, helping Cyrn.”

They were important to their clan, of course. Winter was closing in and humans were hesitant to trade with them, no doubt moreso once they heard of the Conclave. The clan would need capable hunters more than ever. However, Cyrnarel had the mark on their hand—whatever Leliana said, they couldn’t just up and leave, especially if there was nobody else to close the rifts. Mahanon, at this point, would only be another mouth to feed; he could hunt with a bow, but he would not do well with his current injuries, and the stress of being away from Cyrnarel would not help.

Ellana was a skilled hunter, one of the best archers in Clan Lavellan. It would be best for them if she returned, and so the human’s words cut through her. Was she abandoning her clan? Leaving them to hunt without her and to defend themselves from any templars or rogue mages in the area? Would she really do more good here, fighting the rifts’ demons and defending the other two?

Those questions scared her, but every time she looked down at her brother’s face—pained even in sleep and framed by singed red hair—she rejected them. Leaving him would be abandoning him. She could deal with the guilt of leaving their clan if it meant she could keep him from dying.

* * *

 

By noon, Mahanon and Cyrnarel had been allocated separate living spaces within the village and were being seen to by Adan, a fairly snappy healer and alchemist. Cyrnarel was given their own small house, while the mage was in another with a few human patients. They had not been placed together, despite Ellana’s insistence, due to some nonsense spreading about Cyrnarel being the “Herald of Andraste” and therefore needing their own quarters.

That was almost stranger than everything else going on. A Dalish elf who vehemently rejected the Maker, sent by Andraste to save the humans?

She hoped the first person to inform them had the sense to be well armed.

While they rested, she headed to the Chantry, which was old and a bit uncomfortable but warmer than staying out in the snow. She had spent her time so far checking up on her clanmates (to Adan’s frustration) and then a couple of hours hunting nearby, both to calm her nerves and aid the village. Upon her return Cassandra had asked to see her in the Chantry at her earliest convenience.

The conversation was lively already, if the voices coming from inside were any indication. Taking a deep breath, the elf pushed open the doors to the room, walking in on the argument.

“He should be chained and taken to Val Royeaux as soon as he awakens!” yelled a man in Chantry attire.

“I will not simply ignore the Breach, chancellor. We need him,” Cassandra insisted coldly.

“Someone was there at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others—or have allies who yet live,” Leliana said.

“I am a suspect?” the chancellor gawked.

“You, and many others.”

“But not the prisoner?”

Ellana decided to interrupt then. “Cyrnarel would have had no reason whatsoever to interrupt the Conclave. Do you think they chose to get that mark on their hand? Do you think they would have agreed to help you if they had caused the Breach in the first place?” She stared hard at the chancellor. “Those rifts are going to hurt a lot of our people. Cyrn would _never_ do something like that. Creators, they’re barely an adult!”

“So you think all of this is a coincidence, do you?” the chancellor sneered.

“Providence,” Cassandra cut in. “The Maker sent him… them here in our darkest hour.”

Ellana frowned at the warrior. “They’re Dalish. Doesn’t serve the Maker. Don’t push your shemlen fantasies onto them.”

“Whatever they are, they were exactly what we needed, when we needed it.” Cassandra moved to one of the room’s walls, picking up a thick book from a shelf, then she returned and placed it on the table in the center. It bore a Chantry symbol—something Ellana was rather tired of by now—and was old but not particularly fragile. “A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act.”

“Seeker,” the chancellor said, obviously displeased with whatever she was about to do.

“As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order, with or without your approval.” She advanced closer to the chancellor with each step, showing him in no uncertain terms that she meant every word that she said and was more than prepared to carry them out, even if she had to do it alone.

The man turned and left, disgust plain on his face.

Ellana wasn’t quite certain what to do. On one hand, she was glad to see that these two humans were going to support her friend, but on the other, this whole Inquisition thing seemed heavily Chantry-based.

“We have no support, not even from the Chantry,” Leliana said, “and we don’t even have a leader.”

“This isn’t something officially supported by the Chantry, even though this is something the Divine wanted?” the elf asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t think much of the world makes sense at the moment,” Cassandra said, having returned to the table. “But somebody needs to fix this, and we can be the people to do so.”

Ellana still didn’t know what to think about this, but a few things were clear: Cyrnarel needed help, these humans were willing to help, and the Inquisition could be used as a method to unite people under a common cause. “Alright,” she said, “we get the Inquisition going. How do we do that and what does that give us?”

“Straight to business.” Leliana sounded pleased. “You’ve already met Cullen briefly. His current troops are all volunteers, gathered after the demons started coming out of the rifts. Few are trained, and those who are only have templar training. I have my own resources—“

“Spies. She will be our Spymaster.”

“—Thank you, Cassandra, that’s one way to put it,” she said dryly. “They will help us gather information and carry out more… subtle tasks. We also have a few contacts to send letters to: Some among the templars, some Circle mages, and a few potential ambassadors, among others.”

“Are you certain involving templars and Circle mages is wise at this point?” Ellana asked. “We don’t even know how the war is going to change in reaction to the explosion.”

“For the moment, they are merely contacts,” Leliana replied. “What we need to do most is spread our influence. Gain support from people within the Chantry. Mages and templars. Civilians who want to see these rifts closed and put their trust in us. We can recruit more volunteers, more resources, and expand the Inquisition. Hopefully we will also find a way to seal the Breach.”

“We can make a start on this in the Hinterlands,” Cassandra said, which prompted Leliana to head to a corner of the room, as if she’d remembered something were over there. “There is a Revered Mother there who has been helping victims of this war, and there has been more fighting in the previous few days since the incident.” Leliana returned with a folded piece of cloth, which she unfolded onto the table in front of them. It was a map of southern Thedas, the colors faded but embroidery still extravagant and detailed. “If we can reach her—somewhere south of Redcliffe, I believe, around here—“ Cassandra said, pointing to an area on the map, “she may be able to help us find Chantry support. I advise that we wait until the Herald has awakened to travel there, since he will be needed to close any rifts.”

“Their name is Cyrnarel,” Ellana snapped, “and they are no Herald of your Maker.”

Cassandra stared at her, and she forced herself not to fidget. Creators, she was trying to be diplomatic here, but the moment they hit religion she just dropped it. _Cyrnarel knows they’re no Herald. They’ll be fine. They’re just words._

Leliana stepped in before an argument could begin. “I have some scouts who can be sent ahead of us. They can check out the area, find Mother Giselle, and give us a report on the situation. We will likely need to help people caught in the crossfire; Maker knows we can use their support.”

Ellana couldn’t object to that. Helping people was always a good thing, right? “And then, once Cyrn is well, I go with them to meet this Mother and start to sort out this situation.”

The door to the room creaked open. “Not without my help, you aren’t,” said a voice from behind her.

“Your help?” she inquired. She remembered that the dwarf had fought beside her and Cyrnarel, and he seemed friendly enough, but she knew less about him than the two other women in the room.

He bowed, smiling widely. “Varric Tethras, at your service, my lady. Previously unwelcome in the presence of the Seeker here, but I seem to recall something about needing a lot of help with this Inquisition, and I don’t think I’ll be turned away that easily. What can I say? I like playing the hero. Or sidekick, rather. I’m not that self-sacrificing.”

“Ellana of Clan Lavellan, friend of Cyrnarel and sister of Mahanon, Ser Tethras,” she said, returning the bow. His smile and good mood were infectious, bringing her out of the serious mindset she had been in.

Cassandra scowled, much less pleased to see him. “How much have you overheard, Varric?”

He chuckled and raised his hands in front of his chest defensively. “Not that much, Seeker. I just came by to see how Ellana was doing, and couldn’t help but hear a few things from outside. It’s not my fault you all talk so loudly. Chuckles is interested in helping too, of course.”

“Chuckles?” the elf asked.

“Solas. The one with dreadlocks.”

She nearly let out a snort at that. It fit perfectly.

Cassandra sighed, deciding not to argue this time. “Alright, Varric. But we must speak with the— with Cyrnarel before going anywhere. They are the one with the power to close the rifts, after all.”

“Not a problem!” he said.

“So that’s settled,” Ellana said. “We’ll meet here again when Cyrnarel is awake.”

At the others’ nods, they all left the war room, heading to different areas within Haven: Leliana to a tent where she would meet with an associate, Cassandra to the training grounds, and Varric and Ellana to where Varric had set up his tent.

When they got there, there was already a fire going, which thankfully helped fight the biting chill of the wind. At least there was still sunlight outside.

“How are you holding up?” Varric asked gently.

Ellana stifled a yawn. “The two people I love most are badly injured and we’re surrounded by shem, there’s a hole in the sky, and I’ve barely slept the past few days. All things considered? I could be reacting a lot worse to this.” She trusted the dwarf. Mahanon loved his books, after all—loved any stories about mages doing good in the world, in fact. After the Blight he wouldn’t even shut up about Warden-Commander Surana either, which was how she had recognized Leliana’s name in the first place. And if Varric was friends with apostates, he couldn’t be that bad to talk to. They were both in this mess together, anyway.

“I’m sure there’s a tent here somewhere you can sleep in. I’ve tried the tavern, but it doesn’t quite match up to Kirkwall’s. They might even let you have one of the houses around here.”

This time, she actually did snort. “Me? A house? I’d rather stay in a tent than fight with shemlen over that. More familiar, anyway. But thanks for the concern, Varric,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll rest soon. I have to send a letter back home though.”

A thought struck her then and she almost groaned. “Actually, Varric? Can you write it for me?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Too afraid to tell the family you’re not going home?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t write. I can read, but not easily. I’ve never had the need to write, since I’m not a mage and I usually have more useful things to do. Anything important I just remember and say later.”

“In that case, I would be more than happy to help. There’s some ink in the Chantry, so let’s head back there and I can help you out there.”

Ellana smiled, following him to the building in question. This was one man she wouldn’t mind tagging along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronoun mixups in dialogue are intended, and pronoun use will be clarified in the fic in later chapters.


	4. Herald of Andraste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another introductory chapter so it didn't come out great but there will be better ones in the future.

At the dawn of the fourth day after stabilizing the Breach, Cyrnarel finally awoke.

The light was sneaking in past the curtains of the small, comfortable house, shining at just the right angle to touch his eyes. He scrunched his face up, turning over in the almost heavenly plush sheets and shoving his face into the fluffiest pillow he had ever felt. He groaned painfully into it. Even though he was a hunter and therefore expected to rise before the sun most days, he had never been a morning person. Not that he complained; young hunters in their clan learned early that complaints often lead to hours-long lectures and tedious exercises that would leave one’s muscles aching for days.

He felt as if he’d just finished one such exercise, with the way his whole body ached. And his hand tingled in a way that was almost, but not quite, painful. It didn’t make very much sense to him, but then again, neither did his surroundings.

“If this is the Beyond, it’s a damned weird dream,” he mumbled, cracking his eyes open and lazily letting them observe the room. It was fairly plain, but had a few pieces of finely built furniture in it and was uncomfortably spacious. A small bowl of fruit, a pile of fabrics, and a few notes lay on a desk nearby, but otherwise there was little of note.

Aside from the bed, that is. The sheets and pillowcase were richly died, vibrant reds and blues that Cyrnarel had rarely seen on fabric before, delicate yellow embroidery lining the edges. They weren’t made of an unfamiliar material, but they had obviously been well tended, considering how soft and pillowy they were.

He slowly sat up, and then let a hand glide over the quilt on top of him. When he moved the other, he froze, startled by the green light glowing from it.

His memories returned all at once, and he winced as he realized why he ached all over—the exhaustion of the other day, plus whatever closing the rift had done to him, had left his body in poor condition. The mark on his hand still weirded him out, and he was uncomfortable having something so obviously magical attached to him, but at least it had stopped growing. Perhaps Mahanon would have some insight into this? More than Solas, at least. The apostate may be a skilled mage, but he didn’t have the knowledge of the Dalish.

The elf still felt bleary, and he rubbed his eyes as he slid out of bed, tapping his feet lightly against the cold wooden floor to check its temperature. There weren’t any mirrors in the room, nor was anyone else present, so he checked over his body himself, running his hands over his bare torso. A few new scratches and scars, mostly healed, but nothing else. A nick on his face. A bit of torn hair, perhaps, but he had never paid much attention to it in the first place, chopping bits off with a knife whenever it bothered him. Whoever had removed his top had at least left his pants on, though they were unpleasantly smudged with some unknown, possibly demonic, substances.

The pile of fabrics on the table appeared to be clothes. They were a color between faded green and beige, and consisted of simple pants and a long-sleeved shirt, sequins dotting the top down the center. Shrugging, he shimmied out of his filthy pants and changed into the odd clothing.

The outfit fit snugly, as if it had been tailor-made just for him, a disturbing thought considering he’d just been asleep. But for how long?

He grabbed an apple and the papers from on top of the table, then reclined back on the bed (which he was almost considering taking back to the Free Marches, if it were possible in any capacity, since it was quite comfortable). Chewing, his eyes glanced at the words, and he read slowly. His parents had taught him to read from a young age—his mother was the Keeper and had expected him to become a mage. When it became clear that his magic would never manifest, he read less and less, and could still do so but it took more effort than he would have liked to admit.

The notes indicated that he’d been here for at least three days now, and had apparently been ill enough to worry a healer and warrant personal attention from a mage he assumed to be Solas. There was also mention of another elf, one with nasty burns who was recovering splendidly.

He gave a sigh of relief. It was good to know that Mahanon wasn’t going to die. After seeing his body in the destroyed temple, Cyrnarel hadn’t had much time to worry or grieve, too busy fighting demons and closing the rift. He would have started now if the mage hadn’t made it.

But he had.

Finishing the apple—and realizing he was a lot hungrier than he had thought—Cyrnarel headed back to the desk, checking out a pair of boots next to it as he placed the core on the desk. Nugskin. Out of curiosity, he tried them on, finding they were also a disturbingly perfect fit.

He decided to forego the footwear. The leather was too stiff and wouldn’t allow him the flexibility he desired. Were his other boots ruined or lost? He liked them quite a lot and would miss them if they were gone for good. They weren’t necessary for the cold weather, but would help around ice and might deflect a few attacks from his feet if things went south. Still, mobility was preferable, even if his feet ended up a bit chilled.

He peeked out the window near the table, pushing the curtain aside just enough to take a look. There were a few people milling about, some armed and armored and others wearing more relaxed clothing, and all were in a bustle to get work done in whatever village this was. Haven, perhaps; it hadn’t been far from the Conclave. The humans would have been interesting to watch for a while, but Cyrnarel needed to find Mahanon and Ellana, make sure they were okay.

Once he determined there wasn’t any danger nearby, he left the house he’d woken up in and started for the main path. If he followed that, he should find them or the healer easily enough.

Assuming he could get there without being interrupted, which was something he had hoped to do but apparently failed the moment he walked out the door.

“The Herald is awake!”

“The Herald of Andraste!”

“Thank the Maker, he lives!”

Nobody approached him directly, but anyone who saw him looked right at him, and soon enough he had a fair amount of humans bowing their heads in deference as they cleared the path in front of him, standing to the side to let him pass. They whispered among themselves, giving thanks to the Maker or saying prayers or blessings.

It was turning out to be a very unnerving morning.

Cyrnarel looked at them blankly, then forced his tense shoulders to relax. While he might have no clue what was going on, showing such a reaction wouldn’t be good in any situation, and he didn’t want to let any humans think he was weak or negatively affected by them at all.

He tentatively approached one of the humans near him, figuring he may as well take advantage of the situation. “Shem,” he said quietly. The way they looked at him, almost reverently, almost made him lose his nerve. “Where is the healer? Have you seen any other Dalish here?”

“Adan’s just up that hill, my lord,” they replied. “Follow the path up that way, then take the right and go up the hill. His is the middle house. As for  Dalish, there’s been one walking about—tall, red hair, looks like she has trees on her face. You might find her in the Chantry.”

Cyrnarel nodded and took off, keeping himself from jogging. He felt a twinge of disgust as he heard a “Maker bless you, Herald” behind his back, but made his way towards his destination without pausing, paying just enough attention to avoid stepping in ice patches. Ellana was alright, but what about Mahanon? Was he even alive?

_Should’ve been you in my place, vhenan._

“Solas!” he yelled once he saw the other elf, standing idly outside a small building. This time he did jog, crossing the short distance up the steps in just a few seconds. “Solas, Ellana and Mahanon, where are they?” He had to know, had to make sure they were alright, not dead or imprisoned or…

The older man quirked an eyebrow. “Ellana is outside the gates, but will return soon. Mahanon is fine, but needs his rest. I take it—”

“But where is he?” Cyrnarel snapped, receiving a disappointed glower.

“He was with other patients, but his sister insisted that he be moved away from the humans, so he is inside that house,” he said, gesturing towards the second house to the left. The middle house must have belonged to Adan, judging by the stacks of herbs he could see through the window. “I would like to—”

Whatever Solas was saying, Cyrnarel wasn’t paying attention. He stopped in front of the door and gently pushed it open, trying not to make any sudden sounds or movements that might startle Mahanon, and he slipped into the single room, shutting the door behind him.

The curtains were closed, but there was enough light to see clearly without waiting for eyes to adjust. Mahanon lay on a bed, sheets not as fine as the ones Cyrnarel had slept under but still clean and soft. His coppery red hair was uneven and patchy, although the fused ends had been trimmed off. A few small scars ran across his left cheek, and a larger one had been scratched onto his left jaw, almost in a fatal position on his neck. Some others marked his bare shoulders. He looked so much older—and weaker—than he should have, and the vallaslin and scars together almost made him look like an experienced warrior.

He tenderly traced a finger over the red vines of vallaslin, noting that the mage’s face was clear of sweat. He didn’t have a fever, his scars were healing, and the red tint to his face was all that remained of the burns that had been there. _Whoever that Adan is, he’s a miracle worker._ “You’re alive,” he whispered. “Thank Mythal, you are _alive_.”

“Unfortunately,” Mahanon whispered hoarsely.

Cyrnarel smiled widely. “No, ma vhenan, you are alive and that is all that matters,” he said, switching to Elvish.

Mahanon kept his eyes closed, body barely moving and not ticcing at all. Indicators of exhaustion, Cyrnarel noted. “Stay with me?” he pleaded, voice barely audible.

It occurred to Cyrnarel then that Mahanon probably had even less of an idea of what was going  on than he did. He’d been left alone without help for a few days, and had barely been awake at all since the explosion. If someone else woke him up at some point, he might fear possession or figure he was hallucinating, both of which would make him panic.

“Anything for you,” Cyrnarel said, sitting on the bedside table and gently taking the other’s hand, mindful of the new marks on it. “I’m here. I won’t leave you.” _Not again, not like I left you in that temple…_

He stayed there for a while, tears drying on his cheeks, watching Mahanon’s breathing become more uniform as he drifted off again.

* * *

 

Hours later, Cyrnarel found himself digging into a bowl of stew as if it were the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten. The apple earlier had done little for him after three days of sleep, and it was only after visiting Mahanon that he had noticed his hunger. He, Ellana, Varric, and Solas sat around a small fire near the center of Haven, apparently one that the dwarf had claimed as his own, and discussed the events of the days to come.

“Fuck the Chantry, fuck the Revered Mothers, and fuck the fucking Herald bullshit,” Cyrnarel growled, stabbing his spoon into his bowl to emphasize his words. Varric and Ellana shared a pained glance while Solas kept his expression neutral. “They’re shemlen. We don’t need to help them. Ellana, Elgar’nan’s sake, our clan needs us.”

Ellana sighed, putting down her nearly empty bowl. She hadn’t expected him to just go along with it, but she had hoped he wouldn’t be this stubborn. “Lethallin, please. You’re the only one who can close these rifts. You’re not going to let demons—”

“No, Ellana, I’m going to let demons take these shemlen. They started this war. They exploded that temple—don’t tell me you think they’re innocent. Who else could have done it? All they’re going to do is hurt others. Fen’Harel take them, I will let those demons overrun their lands. I don’t care.” His body shook as he spoke, voice filled with anger. “Are there rifts in the Marches?”

“Yes, but…”

Cyrnarel cut her off again. “Then we go there. Close off those rifts. Help our clan first. Not the pathetic people down here.”

“As much as I respect your loyalty to your clan,” Solas interrupted, not sounding particularly respectful at all, “you really should know better than to make such an ill-considered decision. You would leave innocent people to suffer—many of them elves, mind you—and leave the Breach wide open? It will not stay stable forever. Leaving behind your responsibilities like that would be both foolish and shameful.”

Varric chimed in. “Ellana’s got a plan, Cyrnarel. We get Chantry aid, we take a step towards fixing this shit. We help people while we’re at it. Gather some people, get their help, and we can sort out this mess. Then maybe once we’ve got things under control down here, with fewer demons and whatnot, you go home for a while and we find a way to fix the sky.”

Ellana nodded. “It will take us a few weeks, at least. Mahanon should be fully recovered by then. The healer’s done a good job with him. We can’t leave without him, after all.”

The other elf slumped in defeat. He had been ready to throw punches with Solas, but he couldn’t argue with their logic. And no matter how much his words hurt, the older man was right: Keeper Istimaethoriel, his own mother, would be ashamed of him if he turned and fled to protect them, abandoning his duty and not giving them the trust they deserved. “Fine. I’ll go with you and help close rifts.”

“And speak with the Chantry Mother?” Varric prodded.

Cyrnarel glanced pointedly at the dwarf.

“I think that’s one responsibility we should leave in Ellana’s hands,” Solas said wryly. “We want Chantry _support_ , after all.”

“A responsibility I will be more than willing to bear,” she said. “Cyrn, will you be ready to travel tomorrow? We’ve received word from our scouts, and should head out to the Hinterlands as soon as possible, but only once you feel up to it.”

He paused for a minute to take a mental inventory, unconsciously flexing his fingers as he did so. His body ached all over, but that would have time to fade while on the road, and the sensation in his marked hand had diminished. “Yeah. Nothing’s broken or out of place, except for… this,” he said, holding his hand out towards the fire before dropping it back to his side. “And my boots. Someone took them, and if a shem threw them out…”

“So it’s not just some weird elf thing, you really do wear shoes,” Varric said, looking to Solas, whose footwraps could hardly be called footwear. “Good to know our dear Herald has some sense, at least.”

“I am not a Herald,” Cyrnarel hissed.

“He didn’t mean anything by it, Cyrn,” Ellana said. “I took your boots to clean them. They’re in my tent; let me grab them for you.” She left her spot around the fire to enter one of the nearby tents, returning with the boots in hand. Cyrnarel took them gladly, brushing off his feet before replacing them with a contented sigh.

“And here is the mysterious man you have been hearing so many stories about, Josie.”

The group turned their heads to find Leliana walking along the path towards them, another woman in tow. She was a human with dark hair and skin, a fine yet practical yellow and blue silken outfit peeking out from beneath the thick fur-lined cloak she wore. The rogue gestured towards Cyrnarel as she spoke.

“A pleasure, Lord Lavellan,” said the new woman, giving a short bow as they stopped by the fire. “It is certainly an honor to meet the famed Herald of Andraste in person. I am Josephine…”

She hesitated. The elf had already walked off, face as expressionless as stone, only the clenched hands by his sides betraying his feelings.

“It’s good to meet you, Josephine!” Ellana said, forcing a smile. She stood, reaching out to shake Josephine’s hand. “I’m Ellana, of Clan Lavellan. These are Solas and Varric. We’re all with the Inquisition. The person you were trying to greet is Cyrnarel. They’re neither the Herald nor a man. So, I take it you’re here to help with things?”

Josephine blinked.

“Lady Montilyet is here to be our ambassador,” Leliana said. “She has resources and connections that can aid us from here in Haven while you spend your time out helping people. Her counsel and skill will help us considerably in the days to come.”

“It is good to meet you too, Lady Lavellan, Solas, Varric,” Josephine said, nodding to each of them in turn, having gotten over the surprise of Cyrnarel walking away. “I look forward to working with all of you. However, I am afraid it has been a rather long day. Perhaps further professional discussion can be postponed until a later date?”

“Of course,” Ellana said.

“Please give Cyrnarel my apologies. Take care.”

The two left as quickly as they had come, and Varric chuckled softly. “Please tell me Mahanon isn’t half as bad as Cyrnarel. I’m not sure I or the Inquisition could handle two of them.”

The Dalish elf sighed. “Really, Cyrn’s not that bad. They’re just having a rough time. They don’t like humans in the first place, and now all this is happening and they’re expected to do something about it.”

“They will need to change quickly if they want any chance of seeing this through, whether they want to or not,” Solas said.

“They’ll be less stressed once Mahanon is well again. And no, Varric, Mahanon’s a lot less stubborn than Cyrnarel, and he won’t be feeling the pressure of being declared some sort of human holy figure. He might even get along with some of them.”

“Thank the Maker.”

“Anyway, I’ve got some ideas on what we can do when we reach the Crossroads…”

The three spent the next hour talking about preparations for their expedition, during which time both Cassandra and Cyrnarel found their ways back to the fire, before they decided to call it a night and head to sleep. The elf snuck back into his lover’s shack before retiring, wanting to see him one last time before leaving.

Mahanon was already asleep, looking more relaxed than earlier and smelling pungently of elfroot. Cyrnarel kissed him tenderly on his forehead. “I’ll be back soon, I promise, vhenan,” he whispered, lingering for a minute to watch the man’s peaceful rest. “Sleep well, ma’arlath.”


	5. Adaar

Mahanon spent the next few days drifting in and out of consciousness. The world was incredibly confusing to him: One minute it was sunset, the next it was midday, he was lying in an actual bed, and all of his mumbled questions received odd looks from whomever was in the shack with him at the time, if anyone. Usually that was what had to be a human, or perhaps even a dwarf—after all, elves could rarely grow out beards. It all rubbed him the wrong way—everything screamed to the fact that he wasn’t actually at home with his clan, and he couldn’t quite think of why.

The fifth day after Cyrnarel left for the Hinterlands, he awoke with the ability to think clearly again.

“Well now,” he muttered, taking in his surroundings. Bed. House. Bits of furniture with junk on them. This had to rank among one of the strangest mornings of his life. Or afternoons. He couldn’t quite tell with the curtains closed, although he didn’t remember either of them being _green_.

He dressed quickly, finding a neatly folded shirt and pants waiting for him, fresh boots resting on top of them. They fit fairly well, although the boots would take some time to break in. Wherever his old ones were, he missed them. _Surely I didn’t get rid of them, did I?_ At least the new ones weren’t too tight.

Noticing a mirror on one of the walls, he took a minute to check himself out, wincing when he saw his face. There were new scars on it, and while the skin was tender, it wasn’t necessarily injured otherwise. He lifted a hand to touch his cheek where the skin ached.

_Flash of light. Vibrant thrum of magic. Hot pain lashing at his face. Barely enough time to move. No time to think, just PULL, hide, scream, yelling and heat and pain and numb and light and fire and—_

His eyes widened, and he let his breath out, struggling to make his lungs work as intended. He nearly collapsed back onto the bed, grabbing at one of the bedposts to balance himself before he shakily pulled air back into his lungs. He wasn’t sure what had happened—the memory was more a giant bundle of feelings than anything concrete, except for the vision of hideous, consuming fire—but it filled him with a moment of terror and fear and dread all at once.

What happened? Where was he? Where were Ellana and Cyrnarel? What—

The door opened and he flinched, but remained standing, one hand on the bedpost and the other reaching behind his waist. _No knives. Shit._ He let the empty hand fall to his side.

The human was bald, with a bunch of bushy facial hair covering his face, and he was wearing robes and carrying a number of small satchels on his belts. He let out a snort and crossed his arms. “Nice to meet you too.”

Mahanon tilted his head and cleared his throat. “What?”

“I said, ‘Nice to meet you too.’”

“I. Uh. Hi?” Mahanon slowly removed his hand from the bedpost to stand upright again, not taking his eyes from the other man. “Where am I?”

The human looked at him with slight exasperation. “No introductions, no ‘thank you for saving my life,’ just straight to the things that are actually important, I see.” The elf’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m Adan, the resident healer. You’re in Haven. The Conclave exploded and everyone died. Your sister and the other Dalish survived, so don’t start panicking. There’s a hole in the sky and those two are trying to fix it. They’re both gone right now, doing whatever no-doubt-important thing they’re doing. Now, sit down. How are you feeling? Hurt? Nauseous?”

Mahanon sat on the edge of the bed, eyes wide, letting out a few chirps and twitching his mouth a couple times. “Alright, Adan. Ser Adan?” The human chuckled but shook his head. “Adan, then. Ir abelas, I do not speak with shemlen often. I’m Mahanon. I don’t feel bad in any way that cannot be managed, so I assume you have done your job well. Ma serannas.” He flexed his hands, satisfied to find them feeling fairly normal, if a bit sensitive. “But I am… confused? What happened? What details can you tell me?”

Adan shook his head. “I don’t have the time to sit and tell you about what’s happened; you’ll have to ask someone else about that. Now, before I leave, your sister wanted me to offer you this potion—she gave me the recipe and I made a few for her and you. Said you’d know what it was. I’ve got an idea, but I can’t say for sure.” He offered the elf a small bottle filled with a clear liquid.

He looked at it for a moment in his hands as if considering it before placing it on the bedside table with a frown. “She knows I don’t use this anymore. I’ll keep it in case I need it, but don’t worry about sparing any more for me.” It worked well enough for Ellana without nasty side effects; it fought off her nightmares, and kept her from seeing and hearing things. For Mahanon, it would do the same, and served the dual purpose of stifling his tics, but he didn’t like the other effects it had. He would feel lethargic and not like himself, unable to think clearly. On a bad day he might still use it, but never regularly.

The healer didn’t need to know about any of that though.

“I would advise you to think about the consequences of the potion thoroughly before taking it, if you must, considering your current condition and the herbs used.”

“My current condition?” He furrowed his eyebrows and sifted through his thoughts, trying to come up with some reason why the potion would harm him. Sensitive skin? Recent wounds? Mental trauma? He came up blank. The particular herbs involved wouldn’t affect any of those things.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Obviously not.”

He went to stand up again, but the healer pushed him back onto the bed. “Sit. I don’t want you to faint and crack your head on the desk. Maker knows I’ve spent enough time trying to make sure you don’t die this past week, and I don’t want to cross the Herald—that’s what they’re calling your friend, the Herald of Andraste. The one who looks ready to gut someone at a moment’s notice.”

 _Herald of Andraste? Mythal preserve these shemlen…_ “What about my condition, then? I’m not dying, am I?”

It turned out that, no, he wasn’t dying or anything like that, but his head was spinning and he had a lot to think about by the time Adan had left him. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Deciding to give the news some time to sink in, he donned a cloak Adan had left on the back of the room’s chair and went outside to find someone who could tell him exactly what was going on.

* * *

 

The first thing he noticed was the sky. The giant, gaping hole in it was mere miles away, glowing a pale green and radiating an almost sickly magical feeling. Despite the distance, nearly everything in Haven seemed to take on the same green glow, giving the town an eerie atmosphere.

The second thing was the people. Humans turned to stare at him, curious to see the new face and probably even more interested in the fact that he was Dalish. He caught a few whispers of “Herald of Andraste”, although whether they thought that was him or just that he was a friend was unknown.

The people of the town were a busy lot. Unimpressively yet suitably armed and armored warriors sparred in a courtyard, overseen by a grim blond man with an impractically feathered cloak over his armor. Various crafters tended to their work, forging weapons and fletching arrows for the soldiers. People went to and fro, mostly humans, but a few elves ran among them. Whatever they were doing, there was no rush, yet everyone was determined to contribute, it seemed.

After making one circuit around the town, Mahanon wondered if he should find someone to ask about everything. His decision was made for him a moment later.

“You lost?” asked a voice behind him, and he turned around and looked up. He worked his mouth for a few moments, trying to find words but only finding tics, and then shut his mouth and nodded.

The qunari—heavily armed, viciously armored qunari—in front of him laughed. “Never seen a qunari before?”

“No.” That came out a bit bluntly, so he tried again. “I mean, ir abelas, I—”

She clapped a hand to his shoulder. “That’s alright, you’re the first Dalish I’ve met. You are Dalish, right? Those are Dalish tattoos?”

“Oh, yes. They are. I am. Dalish, I mean.” They stood in silence for a few seconds, the elf’s mouth twitching a few times before he found his words again. “I was sort of unconscious for the past week. What in Elgar’nan’s name is going on here?”

“I assume you were here for the Conclave?” she asked, gesturing to Mahanon to follow her as she began walking. “Well, there was a huge explosion which tore a hole in the sky, as you’ve probably sorted out by now. No solution to the war, of course, since everyone involved in the negotiations died. So a couple of Chantry officials who weren’t caught in the blast set up this thing they call an Inquisition, right? They want to close the Breach. What you can’t see from here is the huge rift under that hole in the sky. There’s a lot of smaller ones all over Thedas, letting demons in from the Fade.”

“What? Is that even possible?” It would explain the strange feeling he got from the atmosphere, but it sounded ridiculous. You couldn’t just open rifts to the Beyond… could you?

“Evidently so. Well, it turns out they’ve got someone who can close the rifts. Got a weird mark on their hand that can shut them. Can’t close the big one yet, but either way, all those demons are wreaking havoc across the continent. So the Chantry folks are building up a small army and trying to make friends to sort out everything, I guess. Good cause, but very human. Very Andrastian.” She wrinkled her nose. “They’re even calling this weird person the Herald of Andraste. Don’t even know anything about them; too many rumors to sort through. They could be a Chantry Mother or a Saarebas for all I know.”

They had reached the tavern now, and the woman led Mahanon to a table in the corner, where they were promptly served drinks and plates of food, setting the elf’s stomach rumbling and reminding him of his earlier conversation with Adan. “No, he’s an elf,” he said, and she raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you said you’d been unconscious?” she asked after taking a sip of her ale.

“A shem—human healer told me,” he said, chirping a couple of times. “I don’t know how they can close rifts, but this person, their name is Cyrnarel. They came with me to the Conclave.” Some of the pieces were starting to click into place, but the whole situation was still fairly confusing. “What interest does a qunari have here, though? With this… what was it again?”

“Inquisition.” She shrugged, and Mahanon started eating his food. “I work for a mercenary band that was hired as security for the Conclave. Or… worked, I should say. Most of them died in the blast.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mahanon said. “Are you alright?”

The qunari blinked. “Your concern is appreciated, but I will be fine. I decided to stay behind and help out; after all, I don’t have anywhere else to go at the moment. I was halfway between Haven and the temple when the explosion happened, so I was uninjured, thankfully. My name is Adaar, by the way. Herah Adaar.”

“Mahanon, of Clan Lavellan. ‘He’ pronouns, please.”

“Oh. Pronouns? ‘She’ for me, then. And might I ask the same of you? Why would a Dalish be at the Conclave? I take it you were caught by the edge of the blast?”

His breath caught in his throat, memories threatening to grasp his mind before he pushed them away. “We wanted to see if the war would finally end,” he admitted. Lying to a qunari didn’t seem a wise idea, although he saw little reason to lie in the first place. Just because the Keeper had called it “spying” didn’t mean it was really a bad thing. “Our clan gets caught in the middle of things, you see, and we rely on trade to survive. The worse things get with the shem, the harder life gets. And I… No, I was in the middle of the blast. I think? I don’t recall. It was… I mean, I don’t… There was…”

A rough gray hand lay gently over his on the table, and he drew in a shaky breath, mind snapping back to the present as tics flashed over his face. “You’re here,” Herah murmured. “You’re safe now. Everything’s alright. You’re in a tavern, you’re alive, and Cyrel is okay. You’ve got a plate of food in front of you and I’m here with you.”

He nodded, and after a few minutes she removed her hand as he seemed to calm down. “Thanks,” he said. Herah was starting to remind him of Ellana—she would always do that sort of thing when he was younger and afraid of something. “With everything going on, you wouldn’t happen to have heard anything about where Cyrnarel and Ellana went?”

“Ellana?”

“She’s my sister. Looks a lot like me, but darker skin and different vallas—tattoos. I think she went with Cyrn, based on what Adan said. Wherever they went.”

“Ah. I don’t know where, but I heard they were looking to get some support for the Inquisition. Not sure who or how.” At his crestfallen look, she nudged his ale closer to him. “Come on, brighten up! They’re alive, and while weird shit might be going on, there’s still some good to be found here. Here, drink up, you’ll feel better. Elves do drink, yes?”

He frowned at the mug. “I shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be good for…” He couldn’t find the adequate words to finish the sentence, so returned to his food, which he eagerly began to shovel into his mouth.

Herah chuckled, helping herself to the elf’s untouched drink as her own was already empty. “You any good at hunting?”

“Somewhat. I’d need a good bow, and some practice with the snow and ice.”

She grinned. “I can get you one from the merchants. The people here need food, and you need to take your mind off of things. How about we have a bit of a contest? Whichever one of us brings back the most meat by nightfall wins.”

Mahanon studied her for a moment. She was a lot larger than him and obviously more suited to swords than bows or other hunting weapons, things that wouldn’t destroy valuable parts of an animal, and he had the benefit of being small and having hunting experience. On the other hand, his tics might scare off prey, and it had been a few years since he’d seriously gone hunting.

But, competition or not, people needed food. And if Cyrnarel of all people was willing to help them, he would too.

He grinned back at her. “You’re on.”


	6. Blackwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two minor retcons:
> 
> 1\. Bald egg Solas has been removed in favor of concept art Solas.  
> 2\. In order to reduce age gaps, Mahanon and Cyrnarel are 26 (up from 20) and Ellana is 33 (up from 27).

“Thanks again, Master Dennet!” Ellana said, clasping the man’s hand in her own and giving it a firm shake. The man smiled and bade her farewell, watching her leave his house to return to her companions out by the stable, where they were getting acquainted with their new mounts.

Cassandra was comfortably situated on her horse, looking almost regal in that position. Solas and Varric were already sitting on theirs as well, the dwarf scratching at his horse’s neck and the elf idly considering the surrounding landscape. The stablehand stood off to the side, holding the reins of two more horses, and Cyrnarel stood a few feet away from her, arms folded as they stared at one of the horses. She nodded politely as Ellana approached, handing her the reins to a large brown horse.

She looked up at the beast in awe, then mounted it with practiced ease. They didn’t have horses in their clan, but she had spent enough time with humans outside of her clan to be familiar with them. She stroked a hand through its mane.

“Cyrn, come on,” she said. “It’s not going to bite you.”

Cyrnarel stood their ground, glaring at the remaining horse and ignoring the fidgeting stablehand. “I’m not getting on that thing.”

“What’s that, Boots? You’re afraid of a horse?”

The elf scowled at Varric. “Just because you’re willing to sit on an animal that’s that fucking huge doesn’t mean I’m going to. It could trample you without a second thought, yet you’re going to sit on it? No. I value my life, thank you very much.”

“Just get on the horse, Herald,” Cassandra said, intentionally needling them with the title. “We can’t stay here all day.”

“It’s twice the size of a halla. No, three times the size. I’ll ride a halla. I won’t ride… this.”

Ellana sighed. “You can ride double with me if you need to, lethallin.”

“That’s even more dangerous. I refuse.”

She couldn’t see how that might be dangerous, but figured it might wound their pride too much to publicly ask for an explanation. “You’re afraid, Cyrnarel. It’s alright. We can leave you some time to get acquainted with the horse and come back for you later, if you’d like,” she offered in Elvish.

“I’m not afraid,” they snapped back at her. “I just don’t like it.”

“You could walk back on foot, if you prefer,” Solas said. Cassandra gave him a suspicious glance; she still didn’t trust him, and even less so when he was chatting away in in a language she didn’t know. “But it would take you quite a long time to return to Haven. I seem to recall that there might be somebody waiting back there for you. It would be a shame to make him wait even longer for your return.”

“Fucking arsehole,” Cyrnarel muttered in the Trade Tongue, getting a chuckle from Varric. They grabbed the reins from the stablehand and attempted to miserably heave themselves up onto the horse. It took a few tries (and some help from the poor human) to get on top of the horse, but once they were there, they snarled at their companions. “Well? Let’s go. Come on.”

They were shaky and pale, their skin slightly clammy, but they had their jaw set and eyes facing forward. “Onward, then,” Ellana said. She subtly nodded at Varric, who steered his horse beside Cyrnarel’s as they began to trot down to the road. She wouldn’t disrespect her friend by convincing them to ride with someone else, but she could at least make sure someone was watching out for them so they didn’t fall out of their saddle.

The group had only spent about a week in the Hinterlands, but it felt like a month. Between trying to help out with the mage-templar conflicts, seeking out Mother Giselle, helping out people caught in the crossfire, and making sure Dennet’s horses were safe, there had barely been time left for them to eat and sleep. Now that they were finally ready to return to Haven and follow up on the Revered Mother’s suggestion to visit Val Royeaux, Leliana had sent them a letter requesting that they find a Grey Warden that had been spotted in the area, since the rest of them had apparently been vanishing.

If Cyrnarel hadn’t felt ready to keel over at any moment, they might have laughed. Everything going on right now was simply absurd, and in the worst ways possible. Wardens disappearing? Not a good sign.

It took them a few hours to reach their destination, time mostly spent in silence. Varric tried a few times to make small talk with Cyrnarel to take their mind off the horse, but reconsidered when that seemed more likely to get a knife in his chest than any sort of favorable outcome. Solas was simply disinterested in any chatter, and Cassandra didn’t have much common ground with Ellana.

Well, it could have been worse. At least they weren’t trying to kill each other yet.

Once they arrived at the camp nearest their destination, they left their horses there, much to Cyrnarel’s relief. The elf had to take a few minutes to stop shaking and get used to walking on solid ground again before they could move on to scouting the lake, but they were visibly relieved to be away from the creatures.

The Warden wasn’t difficult to find, thankfully. He had a small shack on the lake, and was sitting on a chair outside of it, sharpening a plain steel sword. His armor was simple but featured symbols suited to the order, and his face was half-covered with a thick, peculiar beard.

“I’m going hunting,” Cyrnarel announced abruptly, darting off before anyone else could get in a word. Ellana let out a sigh.

“Are they really going to avoid responsibility like this?” Cassandra asked disbelievingly. “I thought you said they would be more interested in helping people.”

“He doesn’t much like humans,” Ellana said. “He’s incredibly responsible, but also stubborn. I can manage talking to a single shem for him. Actually, believe it or not, I think he’s warming up to you.”

Cassandra didn’t believe it, but she nodded anyway.

The Warden was standing now, having sheathed his sword and laid down his whetstone. His fingers rested lightly on the hilt, uncertain of the newcomers’ intent.

“Are you Warden Blackwall?” Cassandra asked.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. “Aye, that’s me,” he said. “Who’s asking?”

“The Inquisition,” Ellana said. “Turns out a bunch of Wardens went missing about the same time that hole in the sky happened. You’re the only one we can find. Know anything important?” She kept her tone light, but her eyes betrayed her suspicion.

Blackwall shook his head, removing his hand from the hilt of his blade. “Whatever’s going on with the Wardens, I must have missed the memo. Didn’t even know they’d gone missing.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “A solitary Warden? Out here? What is your purpose?”

He held up his hands defensively. “I wander the countryside, gathering new recruits for the Wardens. There’s not much to be done without a Blight going on, so I don’t really work with a unit and I’m allowed off on my own.”

“The last solitary Warden I heard of blew up a chantry.”

“Seeker,” Varric interjected, “whatever this guy’s doing here, he seems to be honest, at least. I don’t think he knows anything.”

“So you’re out here recruiting in the middle of a war?” Ellana asked. “Surely there’s better places for that.”

“I’ve been in these woods for a while, my lady. I know how to keep myself safe, and I admit I hadn’t decided where to head next.”

“The Inquisition could use Warden support,” Solas mused. His companions turned their heads towards him dubiously, surprised that he had spoken up. “The treaties, of course,” he said, as if it should be obvious.

Blackwall’s eyes lit up. “If you’re really aiming to close that hole in the sky, I can’t think of a better way to use the Grey Warden treaties right now, even without a Blight. Speaking of which, how do you even aim to do that? It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you in a way that’ll make you believe it,” Ellana said. “My friend can close these rifts, though. If they close the large one at the site of the Conclave explosion, they might be able to fix the sky.” She shrugged. “It’s as good an idea as any.”

“Whether they succeed or not,” Cassandra said, “the Inquisition still needs support to manage the smaller rifts around Thedas until Cyrnarel can get to them. If you believe the Wardens can help, Blackwall, then you will be welcome among us.”

He considered the proposition for a moment, taking a good look at the people in front of them. Thumping his fist against his chest, he nodded at Cassandra. “Then I pledge my sword to the Inquisition.”

* * *

 

They made it halfway back across the Hinterlands before setting up camp for the night in a small clearing out of sight of the road and surrounded by trees.

Cyrnarel was actively avoiding the newest addition to their team, a matter that Blackwall didn’t push; the elf was heavily armed, after all, with knives seemingly folded into every nook and cranny in their armor and wicked daggers resting in sheaths on their back. It wasn’t that they disapproved of Blackwall, since they could see the strategic benefit of having him along, but as Ellana had said, they simply did not get along well with humans.

Thankfully, they got along with dwarves just fine, and were currently chatting happily with Varric about something as they ate.

Ellana sighed into her stew (a meal of which she was quickly growing tired) on the other side of the camp. “Cassandra, how do you think going to Val Royeaux will end up? Hopefully not with all of us hanged for heresy. Mother Giselle seemed pretty positive, but she has to be, doesn’t she? She’s helping people in the middle of a war, for Mythal’s sake.”

“Even the more extreme members of the clergy wouldn’t go so far as to propose a hanging, Ellana.” She grimaced. “But I doubt we will be welcomed. Cyrnarel will be rejected as the Herald by most, if not all, but if we can convince even a few of them to believe that we are not attempting to overthrow the Chantry and did not cause the explosion at the Conclave, that may be enough.”

“So did they really walk out of that explosion alive?” Blackwall asked, sitting down next to them. “I’ve heard the stories, since word travels fast after all, and there’s something to be said about that weird mark. But people don’t just survive that sort of thing.”

“I would not have believed it had there not been so many witnesses at the site of the blast,” Cassandra said. “We still aren’t sure how they survived, and they can’t recall what happened.”

“I’ve been thinking…” Ellana started, but shook her head as she changed her mind.

“What is it?” Blackwall asked. At her hesitation, he continued. “Look, if you don’t really know what happened or what’s going on, wouldn’t it help to sort through all the options and share what you know? Keeping secrets… It might keep you safe, but it’s not going to get us anywhere.”

“ _Are_ you keeping secrets, Ellana?” Cassandra asked. She wouldn’t press the elf for details, but she still hadn’t earned the warrior’s trust.

“No. None that are relevant to this, at least.” Ellana cringed inwardly, but kept her face smooth. She hated lying, even if it was only by omission. “But… Warden Blackwall, Cyrn wasn’t the only one to survive the blast. My brother did, too. He didn’t get any weird marks on him or anything, and I’m not sure how he’s still alive. However he survived, I’m pretty sure it’s different from how Cyrn did. Reports say that a woman—Andraste, allegedly, but I doubt that—followed them out of a rift, or stood behind them as they left a rift, or something. Mahanon had burns and the ends of his hair were fused together, like he’d been hit by the blast, only weaker. Cyrnarel looked like they hadn’t been caught in it at all.”

In truth, she wondered if her brother had done something. He wasn’t a particularly powerful mage, but she didn’t actually know what he had the ability to do. Maybe he had the power to conjure a barrier strong enough to resist that blast. Maybe he’d even put that mark on Cyrnarel’s hand—to save them? She honestly wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t about to tell these people her brother was an apostate. “My point is, they survived in different ways, and I think that’s definitely something we need to consider. The mark might be able to do more than we think it can.” _And Mahanon might be able to do more than I think he can._

Across the camp, Varric and the other two elves were having a conversation about an entirely different topic. Or, rather, Varric was attempting to get information out of Cyrnarel while Solas provided occasional input.

“So, Boots,” Varric said, “Val Royeaux. You excited? Is this gonna be the first big city you’ve visited?” He’d given the elf the nickname after his insistence on wearing only either his old boots or nothing at all on his feet. At least it was better than “Chuckles,” they supposed.

“Excited to be surrounded by shemlen after days on one of these beasts? Have you mistaken me for Ellana? We really aren’t that much alike. Not even the same vallaslin.” Despite having spent the better part of the day on a horse, they were still rather jumpy around the creatures. Their mood was marginally better after having a meal, however. “Unless there’s a rift in the city, I’d be more helpful back at Haven.”

“There’s much to be said for public appearances,” Solas said. “Whether you like it or not, much of the attention the Inquisition receives is on you. The impression you give them will have a lot of influence on public opinion.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together, locks falling in front of his shoulders. “People are curious about you: Are you really the herald they hope you are? Are you a false prophet? Moreover, do you really have the power to save them? Convince them of that last one, and we may be able to get the help we need to close the Breach. As well as Ellana and Josephine can use their words, they are not the symbol that you are. The most they can do is support you.”

Cyrnarel closed their eyes briefly. “The more you talk, the more I want to hate you, but you’re too damn rational, Solas. Reminds me of my mother, and she’s my clan’s Keeper.”

Varric chuckled and Solas looked mildly pleased and amused. “She did well in raising you, then. Most people your age would prefer to hold their hands over their ears and rush straight into things without a second thought.”

“I’m sure you’ll get your chance to scold the young ones soon enough, Chuckles,” the dwarf teased. “Speaking of young ones—you and Ellana haven’t said anything about Mahanon since we’ve gotten out here. What should we expect from him? Energetic, angry, and eager to stab people? Or the docile halla type? Isolated or outgoing? Not to mention, will he want to come with us to Val Royeaux?”

“I am not ‘eager to stab people,’ Varric,” Cyrnarel protested, but they grinned nonetheless. “Let’s see… He’d love to visit Val Royeaux, probably. Too curious for his own good, and I think he’s been around shemlen even less than I have. Which, if you haven’t guessed, has not been much time at all.”

Varric snorted. “No, really?”

“You’ll probably get along with him; he’s read your _Tale of the Champion_ probably five times by now. Big fan. Hm… He’s not really energetic, but he likes people and isn’t lazy. Bit less of a people person than Ellana though. Sort of comes with being…” They chewed their lip, considering their words carefully. “He’s different from most people in a few ways. Ellana’s warned me that shemlen won’t treat him like a normal person. But that’s all he is—a normal person. He makes a lot of little sounds and movements, and sometimes Dalish from other clans think he’s weird. He’s not weird, and my daggers will have something to say if you say shit about him, got it?” Their voice rose quickly at the end, not quite angry but intending to get the threat across.

“I don’t believe either of us had any intention of doing so,” Solas said dryly.

“So how did the three of you end up at the Conclave?”

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter to either of you that we were spying, does it?” Cyrnarel said. “At least, that’s what Mamae called it. I hardly consider it spying. We just wanted to figure out what was going to happen with this awful war. And now it’s all gone to shit, hasn’t it? Not good for the clan. But we’re stuck here, yeah? I’ve got this mark on me, and Ellana and Mahanon aren’t going to leave me here on my own. Might be safer if they did though.” They frowned, looking down at their glowing hand. It might not hurt, but it had a presence of its own, a constant reminder of what was going on.

“Did your clan not have enough mages to spare one for the Conclave?” the apostate asked. “I understand sending hunters, but I figured most would consider sending a mage for this particular event, assuming they had one who could make the journey.”

Cyrnarel stiffened slightly. “The roads are filled with templars.”

“Templars who would be just as willing to fight a young Dalish warrior as they would a mage.”

Varric responded this time. “I think what Solas is trying to get at is the question of if any of you are mages. You, Ellana, her brother.”

Solas nodded, noting the fear Cyrnarel was starting to show. “Da’len, you already know that I am an apostate. You know that Varric has been friends with apostates before. I do not ask because I intend to turn you over to the Chantry—that would be hypocritical and cruel, and you are already wrapped up in it, I’m afraid. I am merely curious, and I do have to wonder if these rifts and the explosion at the Temple could have anything to do with you or Mahanon being mages.”

“I’m not a mage, Solas,” they said, scowling.

“Then Mahanon is?”

They refused to offer a response, which provided the older man with the answer he had been looking for in the first place.

“We won’t tell Seeker,” Varric said with a wink. “Promise.”

The younger elf let out a breath. “Right, well—”

They tensed up, eyes going wide a moment before they heard what sounded like an explosion from less than a mile away.

Everyone in the camp stood up as quickly as possible, Ellana kicking dirt over the fire as she drew her bow and readied an arrow between her fingers. Varric and Solas drew their weapons while the others kept theirs sheathed but held their hands over them, ready to pull them out at a moment’s notice. The sound had come from the north, where there should only be dense trees; if there was fighting going on, it was probably mobile. Had there been an ambush?

“Cyrn, Solas, Cassandra, head east,” Ellana said quietly once they had all assembled around the firepit. Her eyes flashed in the darkness. “Blackwall and Varric, with me. We’ll have the high ground, but Blackwall can cover us if someone gets up there. Figure out who’s fighting who before we attack; we might just want to observe this. Cyrn, only attack if you can clearly tell who’s fighting and we should intervene; otherwise, keep hidden until I signal you with birdcall. Don’t worry about the horses; if we’re lucky, they’ll still be here when we get back.”

Cassandra looked surprised; she hadn’t expected Ellana to take the lead. On second thought, it made perfect sense. She was a skilled hunter, and admittedly better at traversing forests than the Seeker; how many times had she done this with her clan?

“Cyrnarel, Solas, how well can you see?” Cassandra asked. The starlight wasn’t particularly bright tonight, considering the thick clouds in the sky.

“Well enough,” Solas replied. The other elf hummed an affirmative.

“Then let’s go.”

They took off on their respective paths, Cyrnarel and Ellana leading, reaching suitable hiding spots a few minutes later. Ellana’s group had little trouble hiding; they were up on a small cliff, hidden behind a dense wall of trees. The lower group crouched low to the ground, sneaking forward as quietly as possible behind the cover of a few trees and thick bushes, Cassandra moving slower than the other two in order to keep her armor from giving her away. It wasn’t long until Cyrnarel could see a clearing up ahead, illuminated by flames.

It had been just like any other wooded section of the forest up until the explosion, which had apparently been a fireball or something comparable, based on the destruction. A few smoldering trees had fallen and some bushes had had all their leaves burnt off, branches crackling as tiny flames continued to flicker along them. A number of bodies lay on the ground, throats slit and robes scorched; the fighting had been over in seconds.

Bile rose in Cyrnarel’s throat. This was too much like the Temple of Sacred Ashes, too much like when he had found Mahanon, clinging to the last threads of his life…

They shook the image away. No, this wasn’t the Temple, this was the forest, and there were people standing above the bodies here.

People wearing particularly strange armor, decorated with pointy little triangles and flashy bits of metal. It had some sort of embroidery winding up the edges, but they were too far away to see details. They walked around the bodies, checking to see if any remained alive or had valuables in their pouches; it almost made the elf sick to watch it, but they remained still. For all Cyrnarel knew, they had been the ones ambushed by the dead mages.

 _Nobody just kills mages that quickly, Cyrn. These are the ones who set the fires._ They spotted at least one carrying a staff.

Ellana would have come to the same conclusion by now, of course, if she had a clear view of the scene. Still, she didn’t give them a signal, and as prepared as Cyrnarel was to jump on these people, they settled on watching and waiting.

Then they started to talk.

If it had been the Trade Tongue or Antivan or even Orlesian, they might have been able to get out of there alive. As it was, Cyrnarel didn’t even wait to identify the language that was spoken—it made them see red, and that prompted movement. Next thing they knew, they had slit the throat of one of the group and had flung a knife at another, piercing their ribs and making them keel over.

Cyrnarel heard a shout and a sword came down near their shoulder, sliding off harmlessly thanks to the combination of a barrier and the elf’s deft movements. They slashed forwards with the dagger in their right hand, using it mainly as a distraction to keep the sword at bay long enough to draw their second dagger to replace the knife they’d thrown. Once they had it out, they went on the offensive, changing their style to something more effective and throwing off the swordsman enough to slip a blade through their ribs.

Pulling their bloodied blade back out, they turned to see an arrow fly through the neck of the last standing enemy.

All in all, there had been seven of them, and now they lay in their own blood, filling the newly made clearing with the metallic scent. Solas looked at the bodies contemplatively.

“Cyrnarel,” Cassandra said, walking in front of the Dalish elf. Blood dripped from the edge of her sword, angled towards the ground. “Who were those people?”

They blinked in confusion, eyes following the flow of blood down steel. “I… I don’t know?”

The Seeker stared at him for a moment. “You attacked these people without knowing who they were?”

They blinked again. “Who were they?” They spoke not as if asking the question, but as if wondering what the question meant.

She looked at him with a mix of confusion and horror. “You’re serious. You have no idea who these people were and yet…” Her voice faltered and a hand came to rest on her shoulder.

“Question them later,” Solas said, voice soft yet firm. “I do not think they are fully themselves at this moment. Their memory may yet be fragmented from the events at the Temple, and could have been worsened by the combat.”

There was a patter of footsteps and snap of twigs as Ellana’s group ran over to them, having had to backtrack in order to reach lower ground again. “What was that?” Varric asked, more serious than usual.

Cyrnarel stared at him, trying to say something but unable to make any words come out. They snapped their jaw shut with an audible _click_ before letting their gaze fall back to the ground.

“That’s not good,” the dwarf muttered as Ellana walked towards her friend. She teased the daggers from their hands, which stiffened at first in protest before she was allowed to take them and hand them to Blackwall, who looked at them distastefully. The elf guided Cyrnarel onto the ground, where he sat on the grass and looked blankly ahead.

“They said they didn’t know who these people were,” Cassandra said. “Do you? Why would Cyrnarel attack them?”

Ellana shook her head. She removed Cyrnarel’s water skin from their belt and placed it in their hands. “I’ve never seen that sort of armor before, but from what I can gather, they killed these mages and caused this destruction.”

“So is this what the Inquisition’s got?” Blackwall asked. “An elf who doesn’t even know who they’re fighting before they start a fight? Are you sure this is someone you want heading your efforts?”

“We can make our judgments after we get an explanation,” Solas said, interrupting Cassandra before she could voice her agreement. The edge of his mouth turned down as he continued on to his next statement. “They may have something identifiable on their bodies. A gruesome matter, but a necessary one.”

The Seeker’s expression mirrored his, but she went to work regardless, digging through a few of their pockets.

“Lethallin, what happened? Why did you attack?” Ellana tried, but Cyrnarel only shook their head. Light tremors ran through their body. Their mouth moved, but no sound came out. It wouldn’t have made sense anyway; they were repeating some word or short phrase over and over again. “Cyrn, shh, it’s alright,” she said, pulling them into a hug and stroking her hand along their back.

Solas frowned. “It was something the humans said that caused them to react, but I couldn’t tell what it was. It was not a language I recognized.”

“It was Tevene,” Cassandra said, practically spitting out the last word. She was walking back to them with a note in her hand, sword sheathed. “I can’t read the language, but I recognize the script. I haven’t the faintest idea why anyone from Tevinter would come all the way down here, unless they’ve got some sort of unknown investment in this war.”

“Didn’t think a lot of elves would recognize the language,” Blackwall mused. “You sure Cyrnarel reacted to that and not something else?”

Something clicked for Varric then, and he abruptly grabbed Blackwall’s arm to start dragging him back to camp. “This is the point where you stop asking nosy questions.”

Solas looked to Cassandra. “Regardless of who these people were, if they’re from Tevinter, they probably have no good reason to be here and we have not killed innocent people.” He turned to Ellana. “I will not pry, though I have my own guesses as to why Cyrnarel reacted in this way. To the point, then: Will they be well enough to travel tomorrow?”

Ellana kept holding the other elf tightly; they were still shaking, but they hadn’t worsened, at least. “Probably,” she said, “but I’ve never seen them this bad before. We can try to continue on our schedule.”

Cassandra’s lips tightened into a thin line, but she didn’t voice the concerns she was thinking. “We should get them back to camp,” she said. “They need a decent night’s sleep.”

Ellana nodded. “Help me get them up.”

The warrior leaned down, taking half of Cyrnarel’s weight while Ellana took the other half, and Solas took a final distasteful look at the destruction before following.


	7. What?

The day they arrived back in Haven was a beautiful one. The sun shone brightly and the day was crisp, perhaps one of the last good days before the harsh bite of winter arrived. Traveling merchants and mercenaries passed by the party every now and then, which relieved some of Cassandra’s tension; they had to be coming and going from Haven, which meant that the Inquisition was off to a solid start, or at least not floundering.

There had been no further incidents since the run-in with the Tevinters, and Cyrnarel had been a lot quieter since that fight, offering no explanation for their behavior. They were silently thankful that nobody had pressured them to answer any questions, and Blackwall respected them enough not to challenge their place in the group. Still, it had increased the tension between them all, and the past few days on the road had been awkward at best, made no better by Cyrnarel’s stress regarding horses (which had led the group to make more stops than they would have liked).

As they approached the town, however, everyone was anxious to get back to some warm beds and rest after such a long time traveling and their moods brightened in anticipation. Cyrnarel and Ellana especially were excited to get back, talking quietly amongst themselves at the back of the group, the most active Cyrnarel had been in days. Even Blackwall seemed to look forward to reaching Haven.

They dismounted from their horses by some newly built small stables near the town’s blacksmith, and all took a moment to look at the activity around them. People of all sorts were walking along the paths, bartering with merchants (most of whom hadn’t been here when they’d left) and going about their business. The sound of swords clashing came to them from a distance, and a hint of a smile pulled at Cassandra’s mouth as she marveled at how quickly Cullen had gotten so many people in order.

The Dalish elves bounced on their toes anxiously, looking over the heads of the crowd around them in search of something; it was as if Cyrnarel had forgotten about the horse right behind them. There weren’t too many people around, but being elves, the two were short and not familiar with places like this.

They were about to go off on their own when an elf with a shock of bright red hair came out from behind a few humans, grinning widely. Before they could say anything, he jogged forward and wrapped his arms around Ellana, pulling her into a tight hug.

“Mahanon!” she yelped in surprise, returning the hug just as tightly. The other four shared a few glances—they didn’t know anything about the new elf except that he was Ellana’s brother, since this was the first time they had seen him conscious.

“It’s so good to see you again,” he said, placing a kiss on her forehead before pulling back a short distance. “And you, ma vhenan,” he said as he turned to face Cyrnarel, taking a couple of steps towards them and pulling them into a kiss.

“How are you? How have you been? What have you been up to? Are you alright?” Cyrnarel asked once they parted. They wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone but Ellana, but they had been worried sick about Mahanon in the few weeks they’d been gone.

Mahanon’s head twitched and he chirped a few times, prompting a concerned look from Cassandra. “I’m doing well, actually. Adan’s a good healer. You’d hardly even know I was injured in the first place.” He tapped a finger to the scars on his face. “All that’s left is a few scars and aches.”

Cyrnarel brightened up, a grin appearing on his face. That was a relief.

“I take it you haven’t been bedridden this whole time, then?” Ellana asked, gesturing to the bow on his back.

“Oh! No, of course not! I was up not long after you left. Met a few people in town. Went hunting with some of them. But I have so many questions for you two. To start with, what in Mythal’s name is all this about the ‘Herald of Andraste’?”

Cassandra cleared her throat, drawing their attention back to her. “We have business to attend to,” she said. “Leliana will want to meet with us in the Chantry. I suggest that you continue this conversation while walking.”

They made their way to the Chantry, with Blackwall, Solas, and Varric coming up with excuses to head elsewhere, leaving Cassandra with the three other elves as they talked among themselves about what had been going on and what they had done for the past few weeks. Mahanon seemed fascinated by it all, and was particularly curious about the mark on Cyrnarel’s hand, frustrated at what little they knew about it but intent on gleaning whatever information he could. By the time they reached the building he was fidgeting, looking like he wanted to change topics but stopping himself before the words reached his tongue, instead listening to more about their recent travels. The two elves conveniently left out the run-in they had had with Tevinters on the way back to Haven.

Once they were inside the walls, Cassandra sent a runner to find Leliana and she invited the elves to sit on one of the benches, though she remained standing. “I will not dance around the subject,” she said sternly once they were seated. “Mahanon, what happened at the Conclave? Who caused the explosion? How did you survive?”

He coughed twice before answering. “No idea on any of it, honestly. We were there, Cyrnarel and I ran into the building, and… well, there were people there, but I only really remember a bright green light.”

“And you don’t know how you survived?”

He shook his head. “No. How did Cyrn survive? Whatever saved him might have saved me as well.”

She let out a frustrated sigh. “We don’t know, but we can probably consider all of you innocent, though the Chantry denounces your friend as a guilty heretic.”

“I _am_ a heretic,” Cyrnarel pointed out, tapping their cheek.

“But you are not guilty.” She hesitated for a moment. “Forgive me, but I must ask: Are you a ‘he’ or a ‘they’? I am aware you are not a man, but…”

“Both.”

“Both?”

“That’s what I fucking said.” Their tone held no anger despite their words. “Your shem gender shit is just weird. I don’t understand your insistence on binaries.”

“Oh. I see.” Cassandra didn’t seem to understand it fully, but she would respect them, at least. She addressed Mahanon again. “You recall more than Cyrnarel does. What people were there? What caused the bright light?”

He shook his head with a grimace. “I can’t remember. I only had a moment to look at them before I had to try to survive.”

“Try to survive?”

“Whatever caused the explosion was magic. I felt it before it went off, so I drew my weapon.” There was a dagger belted to his hip, which he placed his hand on for a moment. “All I remember past that is fire.”

The ruins of the temple had fostered plenty of fires for a good few days past the explosion, so it was no wonder he would remember the flames, surrounded by them as he was. “Surely you must remember something about them. Anything.”

“Not really.” His enthusiasm from earlier had diminished with the direction the conversation had taken.

Leliana chose that time to enter, striding in with an armful of papers and giving the group a polite nod. She and Mahanon had run into each other a few times, but past a brief questioning, they hadn’t talked much. “It is good to see you all again. I notice you’ve found our Warden—good work. What did Mother Giselle have to say?”

“She wants us to go to Val Royeaux and speak with some Revered Mothers there,” Ellana said. “We’ve got a list with names of those who might be willing to listen to us.”

“Not that they’ll back the Inquisition,” Cyrnarel added. “The Chantry would never support a Dalish elf’s efforts to do anything useful. But she said spreading doubt within the Chantry would help. So long as they don’t hang us the minute we step into the city, we should be able to do that.”

“Wait, what?” Mahanon asked, surprised and worried. “What do you mean—”

“They won’t kill any of us,” Cassandra said, stopping him before he could get himself worked up. “We should be safe enough within the city.”

Leliana nodded again. “Good advice. Word’s already spreading of your deeds, closing rifts and helping people displaced by the war. Orlesians may even start respecting the Inquisition sometime soon, and if we’re lucky, rebel mages or templars may start taking note. Speaking of which, we might want to consider approaching one of those groups once they’ll listen to us.”

“The templars are probably our best bet,” Cullen said, dusting snow off his pauldrons. He had entered the hall while Leliana was speaking. “They can help weaken the Breach, I’m sure of it, but we might have to get their attention first.”

“We may still wish to consider the mages, Commander,” Leliana said. “Mahanon, this is Commander Cullen. He’s in charge of our forces here. He used to be a templar, but he left the order and has no further official ties to the Chantry.”

Mahanon gripped Cyrnarel’s hand tightly while chirping, and Cyrnarel gave his hand a squeeze. Templars had terrified him since before his magic had even manifested—both the previous First and the Keeper were afraid of them. “Nice to meet you,” he managed, receiving a brief, distracted nod in response.

“Will the rebel mages even listen? They’re likely too unstable to approach in the first place.”

“We can make that decision when we get to it,” Cassandra said. “For now, Val Royeaux holds our attention. Both factions should be considered once we return to Haven again, although I agree that the templars may be the wiser solution. Commander, have your men spotted any Tevinters in the region? We ran into some on the way back here.”

This time it was Cyrnarel tensely gripping Mahanon’s hand, Ellana shooting them a concerned glance.

“No, but I can tell my men to keep an eye out.” Cullen took a step back. “Is there anything else important? The recruits’ break should be just about over by now and I should get back to them.”

“That will be all,” Cassandra said.

“Cassandra,” Leliana said after he was gone, “We’ve had a few reports of Tevinter cultists in northern Ferelden, though I had no idea they had come this far south. Venatori, they call themselves. I haven’t been able to find out much about them, but there’s a mercenary group that brought us some information. Some of my scouts have been watching them, and they seem honest enough.” She turned her gaze to Cyrnarel. “Josephine says we have the coin to afford them. If we’re fighting demons and now these Venatori, their help might be useful. But they are a bit… eclectic. Not that we aren’t already a strange group ourselves, but we wanted you to confirm whether or not we should hire them.”

Confusion crossed their face. “This mark on my hand doesn’t give me some magical ability to determine the trustworthiness of shemlen. But if they’re killing ‘Vints, that’s good enough, right?”

Leliana chuckled. “Actually, they’re led by a qunari. Calls himself The Iron Bull, and the company is the Bul’s Chargers. He turned Tal-Vashoth a few months ago; I wasn’t able to turn up much except that it involved an exploded qunari warship.”

“Tal-Vashoth means he left the Qun, right?” Mahanon asked.

“Yes. He used to be a spy, however, so I would be careful with him. He’s the only qunari in the company, but there’s some dwarves and elves, some even Dalish.”

That was the first good news they’d heard in a while. Considering that their surroundings were devoid of any other Dalish elves, having some around would be a relief. “Where are they now?” Ellana asked.

“They’ve got tents set up with the rest of our troops. At the moment they’re probably all either training or helping gather resources—they offered to help out during their wait. I can set up a professional meeting for later this evening, if you have the time.”

“Good idea.”

“For now,” Cassandra said, “you two deserve your rest. We’ve been on the road a long while and should leave for Val Royeaux soon, preferably within two or three days.

* * *

 

The three Lavellans made their way to Cyrnarel’s cozy little house, which already had a fire going in the hearth. After kicking off their boots, they promptly seated themselves on the rug in front of it, Cyrnarel dragging the blankets off the bed so they could wrap themselves up in them, and helped themselves to the fresh fruit that somebody had placed in the house. Regardless of the religious awkwardness, being the Herald of Andraste had some perks, at least.

Mahanon was having a hard time keeping still, leg bouncing as he sat between the other two elves and chirping and twitching more than usual. He tried and failed to conceal a grin, but didn’t yet say what was on his mind.

Ellana went first. “You’ll love to meet Solas and Varric, da’ean,” she said, using the nickname she and their mothers called him. _Little bird_ , it meant.

“Solas?” Cyrnarel screwed up their face. “He doesn’t even like the Dalish. Not really. Thinks we’re weird or something.”

“Yes, but he’s a mage!”

“They let mages into the Inquisition?” Mahanon asked.

“Yeah,” Cyrnarel said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “He’s an apostate, and never been to a Circle in his life. Might’ve been Dalish once, as a child, but he rejects that. Damned reasonable, though, and a good mage. Helped save your life when we… You’re probably alive thanks to him.”

Mahanon opened his mouth to say something, but reconsidered his words. “And Varric? Not _the_ Varric Tethras?”

“The one and only,” Ellana said around a mouthful of grapes. “Good storyteller and clever.” She grinned suddenly. “He’s nicknamed Cyrnarel ‘Boots’.”

The elf in question groaned.

“Boots?”

“They wouldn’t wear anything on their feet until they got their old boots back.” She snickered. “You should’ve seen them trying not to step on ice or rocks.”

“Ellana!”

“It was funny!”

“It was not,” they muttered, but didn’t press the topic. “Oh, but nobody knows you’re a mage, only Solas and Varric.”

Ellana gasped and Mahanon tensed up. “You told them?” she asked.

“No! Solas guessed, and Varric was there too, and I’m shit at lying. But I trust they won’t tell, and anyway, they don’t know you’re—” They stopped, glancing over their shoulder at a window and lowering their voice. “They don’t know you’re a blood mage.”

Mahanon grimaced, mouth twitching. “I don’t intend to let anyone know I’m a mage at all. I don’t trust these shemlen, and especially not the templars, whether they’ve left the Chantry or not. I’ve made better friends with qunari so far anyway.”

“You’re already met Iron Bull?” Ellana asked, voice somewhere between awed and frightened.

“No, not him. A woman named Herah Adaar. She was here as part of hired security for the Conclave. She’s really nice. Intimidating, but friendly. I’ve gone hunting in the mountains with her a few times now. Easy to get along when we both stick out.”

“So what else has been going on here?” Cyrnarel asked. They poked at their lover’s chest. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed you’re binding.”

He shrugged, smile returning to his face. “I’ve never tried it before, but I think I like it,” he said. “At first it was just something I made quickly so that shemlen would use the right pronouns without having to be corrected, but I’m fond of this whole ‘flat chest’ thing. Does wonders for my appearance and confidence. I actually gave myself a proper haircut, too. Shorter than I’d like, but no more weirdness from… Yeah.”

Ellana patted his shoulder. “Just don’t strain your back too much, alright?”

“Yes, _mamae_.”

“Speaking of the explosion,” Cyrnarel started slowly, reminded by the mention of Mahanon’s hair. “You were definitely lying to Cassandra. I honestly have no idea how I survived, but whatever you did, it was different. Supposedly I fell out of the Fade; you were caught in the blast and should have died. Not even you are that good at barrier spells.”

Mahanon picked at a thread on the blanket around his shoulders; anyone else might have thought he was ignoring the question, but he was mulling it over in his mind. He wouldn’t lie, of course, not to the two people he loved most, but it weighed heavily on his mind.

“There were a lot of people there, in the temple. I don’t remember who they were or what they looked like, and I felt the magic before it went off, whatever that explosion was. That much is true. I don’t really remember what I saw or felt specifically that made me panic, but I panicked. And…” He swallowed, voice shaking. “There were a lot of bodies on the ground. Some were dead, some were not. They might have been killed for plain conflict reasons, but considering the strength of the magic I felt…” He shook his head. “They might have been sacrificed for blood magic, or the mages were stronger or more numerous than I thought. That, or my memory’s more wrong than I realize. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“What are you getting at?” Ellana asked, stroking his arm. “Did you…?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I used blood magic to strengthen my barrier. I was working entirely on instinct; had I stopped to think, I would be dead right now, and my…” He trailed off, holding his words for the moment.

Cyrnarel wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Vhenan’ara, you saved your life. You survived. That’s important and you should not regret living.”

“But I still killed them all. Using their blood, their life energy like that, it would have killed them.”

“They would have died in the blast anyway.”

“But I was the one to kill them.”

“You made the right choice,” Ellana said, kissing the top of his head. “You’re here, alive and whole, thank Mythal.”

A smile once again pulled at his lips. “And thank Sylaise,” he said, causing the other two to look at him curiously. He let the grin return to his face as he placed a hand on his stomach. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence filled the room as they took the time to process the information.

Cyrnarel recovered first, stumbling over words as they tried to start a few sentences. Failing that, they pulled Mahanon into a short kiss. “What?”

“I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a parent. You,” he said, looking to Ellana, “are going to be an aunt.”

“You’re pregnant,” Cyrnarel repeated, a blank expression on their face.

“Yes. Pregnant.”

“I’m so proud for you,” Ellana said, pulling him into a tight hug. “You’re going to be a wonderful father.” She was practically beaming with her smile. “How far along are you? Are you doing alright? Any problems so far? Creators, but you are blessed, to survive that and have a child.”

He rubbed the back of his neck shyly. “About a month and a half, which would have been a week or two before we left for the South. Everything’s fine, though I’ve had to stop taking the potions for my…” He gestured to himself unhelpfully, searching for words. “The one that deepens my voice and whatnot. And I can’t take the one to stop hallucinations, but I’m doing alright with that, I promise.”

“You’re pregnant,” Cyrnarel said with awe.

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed,” Ellana teased.

Cyrnarel looked as if they were going to start crying. “I… wow. I can’t… You’re amazing and I love you,” they said, pulling Mahanon in for another kiss.

Ellana stood then, throwing her blanket back on the bed in a heap and stretching her arms. She shoved on her boots and nabbed a few more pieces of fruit while Mahanon looked at her, Cyrnarel lost in thought. “I’ll take my leave now,” she said. “Just be ready when we meet those mercenaries.”

She walked out the door and the two elves behind her kissed once more in front of the fire, spending the next few hours on their own.


	8. Meet the Chargers

Leliana, Cassandra, Josephine, Cullen, and Varric reconvened in one of the Chantry’s smaller rooms while the elves were chattering away in Cyrnarel’s lodgings, sitting in lightly padded wooden chairs and getting down to business right away. While Varric usually would not be involved in these discussions, the four humans admitted that it would be best this time, since he deserved to know what was going on and could offer them new information despite his previous reluctance. He had a knack for getting along with people, and Cassandra could acknowledge that even Cyrnarel liked the dwarf.

“Alright then,” Josephine started. “To briefly cover everything you’ve missed in the past few weeks: We’ve garnered mild political interest in Ferelden and Orlais, but most nobles are too hesitant to back the Inquisition without proof of what we are doing to help them and their assets. I’ve called in a few favors so we don’t drown, but we are tight on resources so far. Cullen’s soldiers are coming along nicely, but could be better.” The commander grimaced at that; he was frustrated with them, since most were farmhands or mercenaries, and therefore lacked formal training. Fixing bad habits was even worse than teaching good ones in the first place. “We have plans for recruitment methods, but they won’t reach very far until we have a better reputation. Leliana’s scouts have tracked down a number of rifts, but not any extra information on who or what caused them.”

“Thank you, Josephine,” Leliana said, though the explanation had been primarily for Cassandra’s benefit. “All things considered, this hasn’t been as rough as expected. We still don’t have a leader, though.”

The warrior’s face hardened. “And Hawke is still missing.”

“Both him and Warden-Commander Surana. Neither can I reach a few of my other contacts who may know where he is.” Her eyes narrowed. “Hawke’s been hiding for years, but Alim? He wouldn’t do this, not even with all the other wardens disappeaing. If our resources weren’t stretched so thin I’d search for him.”

“Yes, let’s contact a mage in the middle of a mage war and ask him where he’s hiding,” Varric provided, voice dripping with sarcasm. He might not know the Hero of Ferelden himself, but he knew Hawke. “You can’t really fault him for disappearing at a time like this.”

“This is exactly the sort of time they need to _not_ disappear,” Cullen growled, but continued on before Varric could say anything more. “Frankly, if they’re not here, they don’t matter. If we need a leader, then pick one. We don’t need a hero here—we need someone with leadership skills.”

“A Warden-Commander doesn’t have leadership skills?” Leliana asked.

“I… You’re right, he would have those, but we need someone who is here right now. But leadership is a secondary matter.” He shook his head, scratching idly at one hand. “We need a plan. I can have men out in the field to manage the demons from the rifts closest to settlements until the Her—until Cyrnarel can get out there. We won’t be able to help the people nearby with our current numbers, but demon management is our top priority. We need to get him out there as soon as possible. How is he managing rifts?”

“He closes them without too much effort,” Cassandra said, “but he has also become a symbol of the Inquisition thanks to his unique involvement. His focus can’t be entirely military.” She rose her hands and voice as Cullen began to talk again, cutting him off. “If he were to do that, he would be stopped soon enough by the Orlesian military or other groups that call him a false herald or have other reasons to want to end this Inquisition. We don’t just need support to close the Breach, we need support so we can be allowed freedom of movement and be able to protect people from these demons.”

The commander bit his lip, still angry but not offering any disagreement.

“He needs to court the public opinion,” Leliana agreed. “Cullen, organize your fit troops as you see fit. Consider speaking with the Valo-Kas mercenary as well; she has more experience than most here and could serve as a proper lieutenant, with the right training.”

“No offence, but are you serious?”

“Absolutely serious. I’ve watched her training on her own, and contacted someone from her mercenary group to ask about her leadership skills. You can assess them for yourself when you send people out to those rifts.”

She smiled at his pained expression, then turned back to Cassandra and Varric. “So, what have you figured out about these elves? We know their clan and how they are related to each other, but not much else. Mahanon claims to be a crafter, which seems to hold up since his hunting skills leave something to be desired.” She knew about his medical conditions from Adan’s reports, but figured they weren’t necessary to share here. “He’s Ellana’s brother and Cyrnarel’s partner. What did you find out about those two while on the road?”

Varric grinned at the confirmation of their relationship—Cassandra, who now wore a scowl, owed him a few sovereigns. “Not much,” he said, glad that he could speak honestly for once without hurting anyone. “Ellana’s good with people and Boots is really _not good_ with people. Hates horses, too. If you’re trying to find dirt on them, I don’t have it. They’re just a couple of people caught in the middle of this like the rest of us.” He happily neglected to mention that he knew Mahanon was a mage; after all, he hadn’t been asked about that one.

Cassandra’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I agree with Varric’s assessment, but I don’t want Cyrnarel running around without supervision. He can be… impulsive.”

“Seeker…”

“I simply think it best if he not do things on his own.”

Varric sighed. “Well, he’s not a god, after all. We’ll be there to back him up, don’t worry.” In truth, he was glad she didn’t bring up the specific events of the incident with the Venatori, considering Cullen was on edge lately and Leliana was distressed, though she hid it well.

“Oh!” Josephine exclaimed, marking off a few things on her board. “You two should meet the Chargers later with Ellana and the others. I haven’t had the chance, but Leliana assures me they are worth checking out.” Cullen made another face, having a very different impression of them. “I’ve set up a meeting for… oh, it’s less than an hour from now. They’ll be in the room across the hall, the one with a table in it.”

“I might have to—” Cassandra started, but stopped once Leliana gave her a look and sighed in defeat. “I will find the time to spare.”

“Can’t hurt to make a few new friends, Seeker.”

* * *

 

Maybe Yavven was drunk, despite having not had a single drop of alcohol that evening.

Maybe he hadn’t slept enough.

Maybe he was somewhere in the Fade, taunted by a demon that wanted to possess him.

Any one of those options made more sense than his very real, very _alive_ clan standing in the same room as him.

They’d walked into the room, three elves and two others, exchanging awkward and polite hellos with Iron Bull and Krem, and Yavven had thought nothing of it, sitting at the other end of the table as he was, until he’d leaned forward to look past the qunari’s bulk. He knew Bull would pick up right away that something was off, but didn’t spare him so much as a glance when he leaned back to hide again.

He fidgeted about with his hands, thoughts rushing a mile a minute through his head. He had seen them die, covered in blood and injured, no chance of survival, even as Mahana desperately cut her palm with a blade in a last-ditch effort to fight back.

No, he corrected himself. It was Mahanon now, from the conversation he could barely hear over his own thoughts.

Laughter erupted from around the table at a joke he had missed, and he felt Bull squeeze his hand, almost to ask if he was alright. He might have said something, but he lost his chance.

“Yeah, we’ve got a couple of elves with us. Skinner, for one, and Dalish, because she’s, well, Dalish,” Krem was saying. He and the Inquisition members were getting along smoothly so far. “And then we’ve got Scars, he’s also Dalish. Friendlier than he looks, and usually chattier.”

Yavven grimaced. Not at the name—he was damn proud of all his scars, and his face was covered in them—but at the situation. He took in a deep breath and leaned forward as Bull leaned back, and looked right at the expectant faces before him with a forced smile.

He had expected the shock that met him, and now he could fully take in the faces of the people he had once known. Cyrnarel, who had once had a chubby little face and long brown hair, now had the more fit frame of an active hunter, skin dark from the sun and hair cut short for convenience. Ellana, who had just earned her vallaslin last he’d seen her, now had the look of a seasoned hunter, with a few scars dotting her face. And Mahanon, whose voice had deepened and face had sharpened, practically glowing despite the terrible situation Thedas had fallen into.

Everything he’d gone through in his life suddenly seemed worth it to see those two wearing their vallaslin proudly.

“Yavven,” Cyrnarel whispered, clearly audible above the silence that had enveloped the room. Krem bit his lip, wondering if he should regret pointing out the other elf.

“Cyrn,” he responded weakly. “It’s…” His voice faltered.

Varric whispered in Cyrnarel’s ear, too quiet for the others to hear, and he nodded, still in a daze. “Come,” he said, gesturing to Yavven. “We need to talk.” Without waiting for a reaction, Cyrnarel stood from his chair, tapping Mahanon and Ellana on the shoulder and leaving the room.

Yavven gave Bull one last look before following the other three, leaving Cassandra and Varric to chat with the rest of the company.

They gathered in the next room over, a small area with chairs that looked ready to fall apart, but only Mahanon took a seat.

Cyrnarel hugged Yavven fiercely, then pulled back, holding him at arm’s length. “Creators, Yavven, you’re alive!” he said through his tears, then pulled him into another hug, not letting go.

Yavven stroked his back gently. “I still can’t believe any of you three are alive. How? How could you survive that? Are Papae and Babae…?”

“No, no, they died, but we lived. And you lived.” Cyrnarel let out a strained laugh. “This is a fucking weird month, isn’t it? Mahanon and I survive the Conclave, and now we know you survived, and we’re all here again, right in the middle of some weird magic and Chantry shit.”

Yavven’s golden eyes met Ellana’s. “You ran, Ellana. That’s how you survived, isn’t it?”

She held his gaze. “I was a coward, but I have grown since then, lethallin.”

“We all missed you,” Mahanon said quietly from his seat. “It’s been far too long.”

“Almost fifteen years,” Cyrnarel murmured through his tears, head still against Yavven’s chest. “Fifteen years without my brother. And now you’re here.” He pulled back again. “Yavven, what happened to you?”

“How did you survive?” Yavven asked, noting that his sibling had avoided the implied question earlier.

They stood in uncomfortable silence for about half a minute before Yavven spoke again. “Did Mahan—Mahanon’s blood magic work?”

The young mage flinched and looked at the ground, mouth twitching. “Yeah. They didn’t stand a chance.”

“I’m not going to fault you for blood magic, da’len. It’s a tool, nothing more.”

“It almost killed him,” Cyrnarel said. “He was already badly injured when he used it. Not a tool we want him to keep using.”

“Yes, thanks for your input,” Ellana said dryly. “He still saved your arse when you had an arrow in your stomach.”

Cyrnarel shot her a glare, but turned back to his brother. “Now you,” he said softly. “How did you get out of there? We couldn’t find your… your body, but we figured you’d been killed.”

“There’s really not an easy way to say this,” Yavven started, worrying at his lower lip. “I’ll give you the short version. The raiders took me away. Fed me magebane and threatened to kill me if I tried magic. Next thing I knew, I was learning to make meals for a magister.”

“No,” Cyrnarel said, turning pale. “Not you.”

“I ended up in southern Tevinter at some point, and got the chance to run, so I took it. Ran into Krem on the way—he was fleeing too. He’s the Chargers’ lieutenant, the one who was being really chatty with you all. Put him in a bit of a worse spot, since slavers are more persistent than the people following him—he broke the law, to summarize—but we had a better chance of survival together. Couple of people recognized him in a tavern on the border, they attacked him, the Iron Bull got between them, and now we’re with the Chargers.”

“Creators,” Ellana murmured. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“Why not come back to the clan?” Cyrnarel asked hesitantly. He couldn’t help but feel anger in the mix of emotions he was feeling right now. “Not even to see Mamae?”

“I’d been gone for nine years by then, Cyrn. There was no way I could have even found the clan at that point. I didn’t even know if the clan had been wiped out.”

“We weren’t.”

They hugged again, neither feeling like they could truly believe what was going on. They had all long since come to terms with the presumed deaths, and the revelation that all four were alive was as exciting as it was difficult to comprehend.

“The scars on my face,” Yavven started once they had parted, “weren’t from my years in slavery. See, I’d never really learned combat magic in the clan, so I had to find my niche within the Chargers my own way. It just so happens that I like to do a lot of my magic… in the middle of a battle, you could say. Right next to people with swords. Who like to slice at my face.”

Ellana chuckled. “You never were too good at that ‘common sense’ thing.”

“I’ll have you know I am a very effective mercenary regardless. Speaking of magic, how have you been getting on as the clan’s First, Mahanon?”

The younger man rubbed the back of his neck, a couple chirps escaping his mouth. “It’s alright,” he said. “Not much different from how I started out, to be honest. Oh, but the people around here don’t know I’m a mage. I told them I’m a crafter.”

The other three looked at him for a minute before Ellana let out a cackle. “You couldn’t craft a shoe to save your life! And you told them you’re a crafter?”

His eyebrows twitched in annoyance. “I crafted this binder I’m wearing,” he reminded her. A feat he was quite proud of, too. Sure, he’d need a better one soon, but this one was functional.

“And what about when someone asks you to make something?” Cyrnarel asked, grin on his face. “’Sorry, Dalish secrets, can’t do that without at least one sacrifice to June, made at midnight on a full moon’?”

“Nonsense, vhenan. Everyone knows crafters can only make things before dawn, when they’re most certain to wake up everyone else in the camp.”

Yavven choked on his breath. “ _Vhenan?_ ”

A few seconds ticked by. “Any more surprises you have for me?” Yavven asked. This was all a lot to absorb. Forget the giant hole in the sky— _this_ was what was turning his world upside-down again.

Mahanon smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Well… Cyrn and I are bonded, yeah,” he said, blushing. He pulled at the thin necklace around his neck, revealing the ironbark ring dangling on it, which had been hidden behind his shirt. “Also, you’re going to be an uncle.”

Yavven’s eyes widened. “You’re pregnant? We’re in the middle of this weird shit and you’re pregnant?”

“Technically it was before—”

“So,” Ellana cut in. “I guess we’re hiring the Chargers after all.”

“Yes,” Cyrnarel agreed. He looked up at Yavven. “Unless…”

“No, Cyrn, this is where I want to be. Right in the middle of all the weirdness.” There wasn’t even a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “We’re family, and I’m not leaving you this time, I swear it. But the Chargers are my clan, too. I’d rather not have to choose.”

“You won’t.”

They returned to the meeting with the Chargers, starting to feel comfortable with each other again, and Bull broke out a cask of mead he’d been hiding in a corner of the room to celebrate their new employment. It was a shame that they would have to separate again so soon—Yavven to do Inquisition work in the field and the others to visit Val Royeaux—but things were suddenly looking much brighter than before. 


	9. Val Royeaux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a few more scenes planned for this chapter but decided that would make it inconsistently long.
> 
> Dorian comes in very soon, don't worry.

“Josephine, are you handling things alright?” Ellana asked, writing her signature clumsily on a letter, leaning over Josephine’s desk. It was probably misspelled, and contrasted sharply with the neat, flowing letters that the ambassador had written above it, but she was proud that she could write at least this much with so little practice. The note was another letter home, this time noting Mahanon’s good health and Yavven’s existence. She left out her brother’s pregnancy for the moment; he would probably send a letter himself to their parents informing them of the good news, and she wasn’t sure if he would want Josephine to know about it.

“Of course, Lady Lavellan,” Josephine said, sitting at her desk. A small stack of papers sat before her, ignored thus far as she had been helping Ellana write her letter home. “While the Inquisition’s lack of influence can be difficult to work with, this is not at all my first time in this position, and I have had worse situations to deal with.”

“No trouble so far? I don’t mean to doubt you,” she clarified quickly. “You’re probably doing a wonderful job, considering the Inquisition hasn’t collapsed, but you’re the only person doing this right now. Making connections, trying to make people like us, and so on.”

Josephine chuckled. “Leliana’s doing her part, she is just… less involved with nobility, shall we say. And you and Cyrnarel are spreading our influence just as well. Do not discount your part in all of this—you two have helped close rifts and restore faith in people who have been hurt by both the war and the rifts.”

Ellana nodded, a small smile on her face as she fiddled with the corner of her letter. “I suppose we have, haven’t we? Still, if you need some help, feel free to ask. I don’t know how much I can do, but this has got to be stressful for you. I know it is for me.”

“And I have the luxury of not being in the middle of combat, thank the Maker.” Josephine paused, one hand resting on the papers before her. “Actually…”

The elf perked up. “Yes?”

She sighed. “There have been… rumors going around about the three of you, considering your involvement in the Inquisition. Cyrnarel is the only one who can close rifts and you and your brother are close to them, which means people are saying things about you all. Things I am not going to repeat. You… probably already know the things people say about the Dalish.”

“Rumors are inevitable. We can manage.”

“I intend to do what I can to stop the rumors, my lady,” Josephine said, obviously disturbed by the topic in the first place. “It might be easier to do that if I had more knowledge on how you lived. Put the rumors to rest and let people know that you just live differently from them. If you are willing to share, that is.”

Ellana thought about it for a moment, then handed her letter to Josephine. “Could you seal that for me?” she asked.

She collected a chair from the other side of the room and pulled it up to the desk, sitting down as Josephine stamped the envelope closed with a wax seal. “I’ve been around humans a lot more than Mahanon and Cyrnarel,” she admitted, almost shyly. “They’re going through more culture shock than I am. As for how we live, it’s a bit insular. We have crafters, hunters, storytellers, halla keepers, and more. We all provide for the clan as we can and raise children as a group. Sometimes we trade with shemlen, but that’s difficult when we’re pushed away or treated with suspicion. It’s a lot like Haven, actually, but with less war and more children.”

Josephine nodded thoughtfully as Ellana spoke, holding eye contact and absorbing every word. “Your hunters…” she started, not sure how to phrase a question without repeating rumors.

“We don’t hunt shemlen,” Ellana said. “Just animals for food, like rabbits and deer. Most are armed for combat in case it becomes necessary to defend ourselves from bandits or something. Cyrn and I are hunters. I’ve been leading hunts for a few years now, but Cyrn tends to follow or go off on their own.”

“And Mahanon?”

She bit her lip, trying not to smile. “He’s a crafter, but he’d rather help the Inquisition by Cyrnarel’s side.” Mahanon would be found out as a liar if he so much as lifted a hammer at the blacksmith’s forge. He could fend for himself, sure, and was probably a better crafter than the average human, but he could never hope to actually pretend to be one. “He’s got some skill with weapons, like all Dalish do. We’re all taught how to survive on our own or take on different roles when required.”

“People are talking about religion as well. How should I approach that?” Josephine asked. “I realize that you have your own and are not Andrastian, but you’re obviously not ‘vicious heathens’ or anything like that.”

The elf laughed. “Cyrnarel might like that description, actually. But no. We have our religion, and it helps guide us like the Chant might guide you. It’s not evil or cruel and it tends to hold the same morals as the Chantry. You can tell people we like Andraste a lot, too; we just don’t believe in her as a prophet.”

Josephine smiled at her and she almost lost her breath for a moment. “What sort of dishes do your people enjoy?”

They continued speaking for another hour before Ellana hurried out to send her letter with a genuine smile on her face. So far, it seemed like the Inquisition had been nothing but wonderful.

* * *

 

The journey to Val Royeaux was the first time the elves had ever visited Orlais, and Cassandra had a difficult time convincing them to just pass through the Dales instead of spending half their time there. They had more important matters to attend to, she said. Cyrnarel just cursed at her from atop their horse (which was still a terrifying creature, they insisted, but riding with Mahanon helped) until Ellana convinced him that the sooner they got to the city, the sooner they could deal with the Breach and then have time to travel.

Blackwall and the Chargers, including Yavven, had been sent back to the Hinterlands to gather resources for the Inquisition and local efforts to rebuild, working to make the roads safer and determine strategic locations for watchtowers and official camps. Leliana’s spies kept an eye out for Venatori and hotspots in the Mage-Templar War, sending the Chargers to intervene when necessary, and Cullen’s soldiers handled any demons that got too close to settlements. Not all the rifts in the area had been closed, but it was enough to keep the area stable.

As sad as Cyrnarel was to be separated from their brother again, their mood had brightened considerably simply from seeing him once more and from seeing Mahanon well again. Where they had been sullen a couple weeks ago, now they were cheery, chatty, and a good deal less stressed.

They stabled their horses outside the city before entering through the main gates.

“My lords and ladies,” a scout wearing Inquisition motifs said, running up to them and kneeling. Cyrnarel shifted uncomfortably. “The templars have been expecting you.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Varric said. “Think they’re here to offer their help?”

“There is still a chance,” Cassandra argued. To the scout, she said, “Send word back to Haven. If we run into trouble…”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Is this really necessary?” Cyrnarel asked with a nervous glance to Mahanon and Solas once the scout was gone. “Dividing the Chantry is one thing, but I don’t want to tangle with templars.”

“I doubt they would attack us in the middle of Val Royeaux, no matter their feelings,” Solas pointed out. “The worst that could happen is public denouncement.”

Cyrnarel sighed grumpily, rubbing their marked hand. The mismatched group received more than their share of odd glances as they walked through the city towards the market. If Cyrnarel had had their way, they would have let the others enter the city without them; even Ellana thought that might be a good idea. But in order for the Inquisition to be taken seriously, they had to be seen with the elf who had become their symbol, no matter how much they would have preferred to avoid humans. They’d insisted that Mahanon stay out of the city to avoid trouble too, but he actually wanted to see the city. His face now held an expression of awe as he took in the sights around him, from the masked nobles to the marble and gold sculptures of Andrastian figures and lions.

“Just don’t lose your temper,” Ellana said, tapping their shoulder gently when they entered the market. “I’ll speak if you need me to.”

“Ma serannas, but I won’t. Not today.”

That said, by the time the group had finished arguing with the Chantry sisters and Lord Seeker Lucius had walked off, Cyrnarel was downright furious.

“What the fuck just happened?” they asked exasperatedly in elvish, then repeated it in the Trade Tongue. “Cassandra, what the fuck just happened?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” she said, cold rage chiseled onto her face. “This makes little sense to me, but Lucius’ actions and words were completely uncalled for.”

Mahanon tapped her elbow. “Let’s go see if the sister needs help.”

Cyrnarel shot him a concerned glance as the two walked over to help her. He was getting along well with Cassandra and had always been kind to strangers, but getting close to members of the Chantry was a dangerous move. The only ones he outright avoided were templars, like Cullen. Even Ellana kept Cassandra and Leliana at a safe distance. They were working together for the good of the Inquisition, nothing more.

They had little time to think on that before an arrow shot at them out of nowhere, grazing the tip of the toe of their right boot. “What the _fuck_ is going on?” they asked for the third time that day.

Varric was already reaching for his crossbow, but Ellana signaled him to stop. “Not an attack, just a note,” she said, picking it up to read it.

“That was an arrow, Ellana. Arrows are violent. That fucking was an attack.”

“Perhaps they may one day change your official title to the _Fucking_ Herald of Andraste,” Solas mused. He got a snort in response.

“So what’s it say? A threat?”

“No idea,” Ellana said. She handed the note to Varric, who would have shared the note’s contents if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“My Lord Herald—”

“Monsieur Lavellan—”

Both of the newcomers started speaking at once, then glanced at each other, stiffening as they appeared to recognize the other. One was a thin, pale elven woman with black hair; the other was a human. Both wore different styles of robes, but Cyrnarel couldn’t tell the significance of that.

“An invitation for the Herald,” the human offered, handing a sealed note to Cyrnarel with a quick bow before taking their leave.

“Not the fucking Herald,” they muttered. Varric snickered behind them, recalling Solas’ earlier comment.

“Monsieur Lavellan,” the elven woman started again. “I will make this short, as I am certain you are busy. I am Fiona, leader of the rebel mages in Ferelden. We would like to extend a hand to the Inquisition. The Breach threatens us all, and despite the conflicts we have at the moment, we want to stop this chaos as much as you do.”

Cyrnarel considered her words. Much friendlier than the templars, at least. “What’s the catch? And drop the monsieur.” She might be nice, but she still had a role in the war, and they were not keen on allying with someone who had caused so much trouble for their clan, indirectly or not.

“There are a few things to consider, yes,” Fiona admitted. “None that are quite a ‘catch’. Simply negotiations that must be worked out. We want to provide you aid, in exchange for the Inquisition’s aid.”

“That sounds fair,” Ellana said. “Where and when should we negotiate? You could come to Haven. We could speak with our advisors there to determine what’s best.”

“I hope you understand my reasoning, but I would prefer not to conduct our business in Haven. The templar and Chantry presence is not a particularly mage-friendly environment, and my people need me with them as much as possible. You may meet me in Redcliffe in a few weeks’ time if you would like to discuss an arrangement.”

“That sounds excellent,” Ellana said charmingly, speaking before Cyrnarel could nitpick the details. She knew they wouldn’t like doing this on someone else’s ground, but alienating the mages would get them nowhere. “Until then, Grand Enchanter.”

“Enchanter?” Cyrnarel asked, watching the elven mage leave. “Like, someone from a Circle?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know about southern mage politics?” she asked, eyebrow raised. “Not with the way Mahanon goes on about them.”

“Fiona is the Grand Enchanter of the Circle of Magi,” Solas supplied. “Which means she has quite the position. Or, had, since the Circles fell. Some of her peers who wanted to maintain the Circles no longer acknowledge her as a leader, considering her role in this war.”

“Hm,” was all the response Cyrnarel gave, looking at the sealed note in their hands. “Varric, what’s that violent note from earlier say?”

“Something about finding red things.”

“That makes a load of fucking sense.” They opened the note they held in their hands.

“That one’s from a Circle mage,” Ellana said. “You can tell from their robes.”

“So they wear outfits? That’s nice.” They frowned at the note. “The fuck does this even say? Is this Orlesian? Half Orlesian?”

Solas gently pulled it from their hands. “We’ve been invited to a party by Enchanter Vivienne tomorrow evening.”

“Shemlen have parties? Here?”

“They usually consist of masks and fancy clothing,” Varric said. “Politics with a few expensive refreshments. Not the fun sort of party.”

“Would it be rude to not go? Because I am not going.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ellana offered. “And Mahanon probably will too.” She waved at her brother as he and Cassandra walked back over to them.

“How did operation ‘instill doubt in the faithful’ go?” Varric asked.

Cassandra made a noise and Mahanon’s head twitched a couple times. “I think the templars did most of our work for us,” the elf said. “We don’t have Chantry support, but they’re doubting the templars, which should work in our favor. What’s this about a party?”

“We’re going to see Enchanter Vivienne tomorrow evening,” Ellana told him with a smile. “And we received an offer to negotiate with the rebel mages in Redcliffe.”

Cassandra pressed her lips into a thin line. “We shouldn’t write off the templars. There must be some who see what’s gone wrong with the order. There’s something odd going on there.”

“So we negotiate with both,” Ellana said, receiving a glance from Cyrnarel. They disliked templars even more than she did. “We need all the help we can get at this point. If one group falls through, we still have the other.”

“Right! Well, I’m sick of shemlen so far today. Can we afford a place to stay here or is it tents again?” Cyrnarel stretched their arms and bounced on their toes, eager to get away from the crowds and staring eyes.

Mahanon stared at them blankly. “We’re in the middle of Val Royeaux and you don’t want to explore? See the markets? Visit the docks? Cyrn, we’ve never been to such a large city before!”

“They do say this is one of the most romantic cities in Thedas,” Varric said, nudging the rogue elf. “Perfect for a date.”

“There’s nothing romantic about shemlen.”

Ellana patted Cyrnarel on the arm. “You two go wander about and have a meal,” she said in Elvish, “and the rest of us will find those red things and a place to stay. We’ll meet you here around sundown, alright?”

Mahanon pulled Cyrnarel along behind him before Ellana could finish what she was saying, ticcing excitedly. As adventurous as the Inquisition was, it wasn’t the good sort of adventurous, and he could use a fun afternoon for once. Creators knew they deserved it after the past few weeks.

* * *

 

Hours later, the two elves found themselves poking at coffee and croissants in a run-down café on the docks, hair dripping from the heavy rain that was pouring outside. Mahanon sulked into his coffee and Cyrnarel looked somewhat guilty. A few of the place’s patrons gave them curious and disapproving glances, but nobody openly harassed them.

“Ir abelas, vhenan,” Cyrnarel started, fiddling with a spoon, but Mahanon cut them off.

“Not your fault. I insisted, after all.” He blinked rapidly and coughed a couple times. “You were right; we should’ve just found a place to stay and stopped there.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry for all of this.”

The two had tried to visit the university at Mahanon’s suggestion, but found that guests were apparently not welcome (despite human guests clearly being accepted onto the campus). They had been turned away from more than a couple restaurants on the assumption that they had no money, and Cyrnarel had almost gotten into a fight with a noble who made a none-too-subtle comment to a friend about Mahanon. Before they could go sightseeing, the skies had opened, and they’d run into the nearest establishment that looked friendly.

“Do you think they’ll mind if we miss meeting them at sundown?” Mahanon asked, moving a pesky strand of red hair back behind an ear only to have it fall forward once more. The sun would set within the next half hour and the rain showed no signs of letting up. “Will Cassandra worry?”

Cyrnarel shook their head. “She’s like Ellana. She might not trust us to be responsible, but we’re resourceful. Besides,” they smiled, “they would’ve heard if we’d gotten into a fight.”

“Hm.” Mahanon sipped at his coffee. He hadn’t had it often before, preferring tea, but with cream and sugar it wasn’t too bad. Bitter, but not as bitter as elfroot. “We’ll find them when the rain lets up then. Are you alright?”

“As alright as I can be. Why? Are you?”

He nodded slowly, then shook his head and lowered his voice. “No, I’m not alright. The shadows are moving again,” he said, referencing his hallucinations. They weren’t always there, but when they were, they often manifested as shadows moving out of the corner of his eyes, stalking him, or seeking him out when he tried to sleep. He likened them to fear demons. “But I can manage. I meant are you alright with everything that’s going on? The explosion, the rifts, the mark… Seeing Yavven again.”

Cyrnarel looked to the side of Mahanon. They rarely made eye contact with each other, neither of them being fond of it, but usually they at least looked at each other’s faces. “Yavven, yeah, I’m alright with seeing him again. It hurts, though. We’re not close anymore, and he’s been hurt so badly. He’s found a new family, too.”

“And the rest hurts you too.”

“Yeah. Well, the mark doesn’t.” They held up the gloved hand, looking at it though the glow was hidden. “It feels weird, like my nerves are active or something. Only hurts when closing a rift, or when that big one expands. As for everything else… You’re alive. We’re all alive. That’s important.”

“Cyrn…” Mahanon was concerned for his lover, but didn’t want to push them to talk about anything they didn’t want to. They acted fine in front of everyone else, but he knew they weren’t. He just didn’t want them to self-destruct because they bottled everything up. “I know you’ve been—”

“I’ll be fine. How are you holding up, though?” Cyrnarel interrupted, switching to Elvish. Even in the middle of Val Royeaux he felt suspicious around so many humans. “With your pregnancy?”

“Fine, as far as I can tell. If it’s hurting me at all I can’t tell the difference between it and the pain and fatigue from the explosion.” He smiled softly. “I’m just very happy.”

Cyrnarel reached across the table to grip his hand comfortingly. “It’ll work out this time,” they insisted. “Don’t worry. It’ll go smoothly and we’ll have a beautiful child who will grow up happy and safe from any war and Inquisition shit.”

Mahanon nodded. “Let’s hope.”

* * *

 

Sera giggled, kicking puddles in the street as she passed by them. “No breeches,” she said, grin still stuck on her face like it was the best idea she’d ever had.

After an awkward afternoon hunting down red things around Val Royeaux, Ellana, Solas, Cassandra, and Varric had found a place to stay the night, nabbed a quick dinner in a restaurant, and braved the rain to find Sera and an arrogant (and now dead) Orlesian noble. All in all today had been rather eventful.

“How long do you think we’ve left them waiting?” Varric asked. The sun had gone down a couple hours ago and the rain had stopped. In their rush to head to the location indicated by the secret message they had completely ignored meeting up with the other two elves. Now they were headed back towards the market district.

“I’m sure they’ve found something to do or talk about,” Ellana assured him. She made a face. “Knowing them, there’s a good chance they’ve spent this entire time being unbearably romantic with each other.”

Sera choked on her laughter. “The Herald of Andraste spends his time making out in the shadows? I think I like him already.”

“He’ll like you a bit less if you keep calling him the Herald,” Varric said as Solas smiled thinly.

“Too bad then,” she shot back. “If he can’t deal with a title, he shouldn’t have gone and gotten all glowy and weird.”

“I don’t think it worked that way,” Solas said. “He didn’t—”

“Yeah, well, he’s got the title now, don’t he? No use pouting over it.”

“Is that them?” Cassandra asked, peering into the dark. She could see two figures up ahead next to a wall, but couldn’t make out the details.

“Mahanon! Cyrnarel!” Ellana called out, and they turned their heads and waved, walking over to them.

Sera looked disappointed once she could make out the tattoos on their faces, but was chatty enough with them. “Red hair means you’re Ellana’s brother means you’re Mahanon means you’re not the Herald, you’re just fucking him. Or getting fucked by him. Not my business. Means you,” she said, pointing at Cyrnarel, “got the glowy hand thing, yeah?”

They scowled at her and Mahanon blushed, covering his mouth with a hand as he coughed. “Glowy hand, yes. Herald, no.”

“Maker,” she muttered, receiving a glance from Varric that screamed _I told you so_. “Right, then, not the Herald. Whatever you say, Herald. So you close those rifts? Plan to help fix the sky and stop weird shit from happening?”

“That’s the plan, flat-ear.”

Ellana closed her eyes for a moment, praying that when she opened them again, everyone in front of her would remain intact.

“Riiight, the guy working for Andraste calling me names. You keep your breeches safe at night?”

“I have nothing to do with Andraste because I’m not the fucking Herald.”

“You’ve got the glowing hand, therefore you’re the Herald.”

“I’m no more the Herald than you are Dalish.”

“Right, ‘cause sticking ink on your face and praying to some shit gods who don’t respond actually does something about this mess, does it?”

Cyrnarel was livid and about ready to pull out their daggers, but Ellana stepped between the two. “We’ve got a room in an inn at the edge of the district,” she said, trying to end their argument. “We have three rooms, two to a room. Sera, as a member of the Inquisition,” she emphasized, looking at Cyrnarel to make her point, “is welcome to stay with us if she wants, in a room with Cassandra and myself.”

Sera glared once more at Cyrnarel before stepping back. “Least someone around here’s got manners,” she said. “I got a place to stay though, ‘til we go back to… wherever it is you go back to. Little religious village in the mountains, innit? Wouldn’t want to kick either of you out of your beds. Do they do that free breakfast thing?”

“Yes, they do. Pastries, I think?” Cassandra nodded affirmatively. “I’ll sneak you out some food in the morning,” Ellana promised.

Sera pumped her fist in the air. “That’ll keep your breeches right where they belong!”

Before Cyrnarel could get in a question about breeches, Sera hopped off, going about whatever business she had for that night.

“She’s, ah,” Mahanon started, chirping in the middle of his sentence. “Enthusiastic. She’s here to help?”

“She’s here to be a little shit,” Cyrnarel growled.

Ellana ran a hand through her hair. She was good with words, but not necessarily getting people to work together. “She can help the Inquisition, don’t worry. She’s got connections and a bow.”

“There’s lots of people with connections and bows.”

“Few enough are willing to help,” Solas pointed out. “I myself may not be… fond of her, but neither is Cassandra fond of me. We work together out of necessity.”

“I do not recall saying anything untoward about you lately, Solas,” Cassandra said. “And I admit that you have been helpful so far, even when you have the opportunity to leave.”

He smiled wryly. “I suppose we should be thankful our personalities do not clash enough that we are at each other’s throats.”

“Or stabbing each other’s books,” Varric said. “That might get uncomfortable.”

Cassandra blushed slightly at that in embarrassment.

“Once we get this Breach closed, we can leave,” Mahanon said quietly to Cyrnarel. “She’s loud, but probably friendlier than the Chantry.”

Cyrnarel let out a breath they’d been holding. “Let’s go find this inn.”


End file.
